


touch me and you'll never be alone

by hoko_onchi



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Curses, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Fuck Or Die, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Quentin Coldwater's Canonical Oral Fixation, Rimming, Sex Magic, Soul Bond, There Was! Only! One! Bed!!, idiots to lovers, light choking as a treat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 46,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27692990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoko_onchi/pseuds/hoko_onchi
Summary: “It’s a—um—bonding enchantment?” Quentin twitches in his bed, all anxious energy, and wiggles closer to Eliot. “So that’s like—the curse is attached to our bodies and—um—”“And your magic,” she says.Margo sits down and takes Eliot’s free hand. “You’ll be fine. You just gotta share a bed with Coldwater without losing your mind until we figure out how to fix this.”“That’ll be—” Eliot swallows hard, his throat clicking. “That’ll be fine. Definitely not a big deal.”“El, we can’t do that—I mean, you can’t do that. That’s—that’s—” Quentin says, a tinge of desperation to his voice that makes Eliot’s chest grow tight.“Q, I’m not going to—it’ll be just fine. We can find lots of workarounds.” So you can keep jerking off about Alice, he thinks. But he doesn’t say. Doesn’t want to say it. “We’re friends. It won’t be weird.”
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 154
Kudos: 253





	1. in the middle of the night (in my dreams)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends. This was supposed to be a one shot, and now it is not: the story of my life. This should wrap up in about four chapters, so that's what I'm putting down. This is really a vehicle for pining and sex, so buckle up. Enjoy. Happy Pornsgiving. All comments are adored. 
> 
> TW: So, as in all fuck or die type situations, there's like a hint of dubious consent. But I assure you, these two absolute morons were already pining hard over each other, and they're both super enthused, just woefully poor at communicating.
> 
> This has not been wholly beta'd. Thank you Rubi for doing the light beta and encouraging me, thank you Aud, Tay, and Madi for reading ahead and checking out my snippets.
> 
> This concept was stolen from the amazing Drarry fic, Grounds for Divorce by Tepre. It's one of my favorites, and WAY more serious than this, and really worth the read if you enjoy long-form Drarry. It's a DELIGHT.

"Listen, this has been great—truly—but we really have to get going.” The books are fucking rhythmically inside the box that Quentin’s holding while he has a mental breakdown over a very tiny, very angry hedge witch slash childhood-forever-crush, and Eliot is _very_ over it. He’d hoped to seduce Quentin with his magical outing and make sweet love to his fuckable mouth, but Quentin is busy re-confirming his heterosexuality. He’s probably winding up to a _well, actually_ and maybe a culminating _but I’m such a nice guy, Julia_ , and Eliot needs wine if he’s going to continue to live. 

“Eliot—isn’t it?” Marina zeroes in on him and flexes her wrists, stretching out her fingers while Julia focuses on Quentin and lays out in sordid detail why she would rather fuck literally anyone else on the face of the planet. 

“Yes. And my friend and I were just leaving with the property you stole from Brakebills.” Eliot grabs Quentin by the back of his neck, intending to steer him toward the door. Quentin immediately stops talking and goes boneless in Eliot’s grasp, and Eliot thinks he hears a soft sound escape his throat—and that’s _interesting_. Eliot will definitely file that away for further examination. But now—they need to _go_.

“We don’t need that shitty book anyway.” Marina shrugs, but then she grins—and it’s _creepy_ , sending a shiver down Eliot’s spine—and she’s falling into an elaborate series of tuts and switching to some language Eliot doesn’t recognize. And Eliot generally recognizes a _lot_ of languages. Marina’s _fast_ , and she’s more than a little scary, even though Eliot’s still putting on a brave face for Quentin. He’s very above-it-all with hedges, but Marina put a curse on Margo her first year that _absolutely_ fried her hair, and Margo still has flashbacks.

And really, Eliot _would_ have been able to block it if he weren’t utterly distracted by the deft movements, by the smirk forming on Julia’s face, by the feeling of the soft hair at the base of Quentin’s neck brushing against his thumb. But Marina is casting, and there’s a _snap_ of magic in the room, the telltale silvery weave of a complex enchantment flashing bright for a moment before disappearing. 

Julia’s already laughing, “God, I can’t believe you—” 

“They can’t just come in here and take our shit,” she says, her voice slow and icy. “Enjoy yourselves, you massive dipshits.”

And Eliot’s pulling a spluttering Quentin back out of the hedge safe house. “Your bargain basement spell didn’t work, bitch,” he says, herding Quentin back toward the portal, his pulse scattered, thrumming in his chest. The spell worked—it worked; he just doesn’t know what it does. And maybe, there’s an off chance she did it wrong so—Eliot’s sticking with that.

“What was—what was—” Quentin’s pink lips are parted and his eyebrows are arched so that he resembles a cartoon character representation of concern, and Eliot is tugging him along by the collar of his shirt.

“Nothing. I’m absolutely certain.” Eliot takes a deep breath and steadies himself. He doesn’t _feel_ different. He doesn’t have an extra dick or goat feet, and he doesn’t think she turned him straight. He’d heard she did that to her roommate her first year at Brakebills—and the poor girl had never recovered. He looks over at Quentin, very casually—and yeah, he definitely still wants to fuck the confused look right off his face, so it can’t be that. The enchantment—he reassures himself—must have backfired. And it’s fine, he’s fine, Quentin is fine. 

“I mean, like—when she cast, I _saw_ the spell work,” Quentin says. His whole body is twitching, and the books are still fucking continuously within their cardboard confines, the box jerking in Quentin’s arms.

“Don’t think so,” Eliot says, leading Quentin down an alley. He looks behind them before he tuts, the portal revealing itself before them.

“But I saw _something_.”

“Mm, it was probably nothing,” Eliot says blandly, pushing Quentin through the split in spacetime that leads to the courtyard behind the Cottage. 

“I’m sure it was _something_ , Eliot—”

“Best we drink about it.” Eliot puts a hand to his back and pushes him through the back door. After the books are back in place, Eliot pours himself a glass of wine, followed by one for Quentin. Q just watches him, still a little twitchy. 

“I could try to text Julia—”

“No offense, Q, but she’s taken up with the wrong crowd. If there’s something wrong, they can tend to it here.” He pushes Quentin down by the shoulders and hands him a glass of Malbec. “Now, drink up and tell Uncle Eliot all your woes.”

Eliot sits down next to him, a respectable distance _away_ from him, because Quentin is his—allegedly—straight, though also possibly, flexible friend. Eliot can test how flexible if he plays this just—

There’s a banging at the door, a muffled, _Let me in, you assholes_ that signifies that yet another physical kid has made the cut. Quentin is already moping into his glass and looking into it like the wine might provide him more information on why Julia doesn’t want to suck his dick. Eliot’s more than happy to explore that idea—

“We were best friends,” Quentin starts. The banging continues, followed by more muffled yelling. He looks around in confusion. “Should we get that?”

“No.”

“Oh um, okay. I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know how it got so bad—” 

“You found out who you are. And she found out who she’s not.” How should he follow that smoothly? “Life,” he concludes grandly. “Tell you what. Let’s not talk.”

He inches closer to Quentin because _not talking_ sounds heavenly, and his first glass of wine is taking effect. He goes to touch the meat of Quentin’s lovely thigh but stops short—

And the door blasts open, revealing a surly young woman with huge hair and an outfit from—Hot Topic? Eliot pours her a glass of wine because he’s not a _heathen_ , and she slots herself between them, taking the wine and pouring most of it down her throat in one go.

Eliot sighs and sits back, watching as Quentin gets up to inspect the door, later mending it with Eliot’s help. The moment broken, they head to their separate rooms after that, Kady falling asleep on the sofa where he’d intended to find out what Quentin felt like beneath his hands.

Well, it’s really no matter. It’s not that he doesn’t want to take Quentin up to his room and blow his absolute mind. It’s more that Eliot knows it would be a one-time thing, if it was a thing at all. And he’s not sure how he feels about that. The fact that he feels anything about it at all tells him everything he needs to know. Quentin is far safer staying where he belongs—neatly tucked away in Eliot’s fantasies.

It’s late when Eliot gets to sleep; beyond the attic window, the moon is just starting to rise above the trees, sending eerie, silvery light over the campus. He’s too tired to jerk off; there’ll be time tomorrow morning, he thinks. It’ll be a Sunday, and he can review the failed excursion, play it over in his mind and rearrange the pieces into something more satisfying. An easy retrieval of stolen goods—Eliot saves the day—and an impressed Quentin, a soft, stolen kiss after they fall through the portal, Eliot dragging Quentin to his room and locking his door, kissing Quentin til he’s breathless and spreading him out on Eliot’s bed, working him over until he’s begging, sliding his cock between those pouty lips. 

He turns the image over in his head after he closes his eyes, his go-to jerk-off material for the past week or so. He built up the idea in his mind, recruited Quentin for the retrieval, and then it hadn’t quite ended up as he’d planned. He’s better off sticking to random dick. Specific dick is never as safe a bet.

Eliot thinks that over as he drifts off to sleep. It’s unfortunate, obviously. But Eliot’s been through plenty worse than having a silly crush on a dumb boy. He’ll be over it soon enough.

~~***~~

Waking up to a lazy Sunday morning half-hungover jerk off session does _not_ , like many things in Eliot’s life, go as planned. It goes the opposite of planned. Very much unplanned. 

And, like many other things in Eliot’s life, it goes more than a little bit _fucked up_.

He comes to consciousness in pieces, aware of pain somewhere in his gut, so exquisite and piercing that it knocks Eliot’s thoughts off their neatly organized shelves, an earthquake of disruption pinging through his body, cracking him open and forcing a broken moan from his chest. He thinks vaguely that he must have warm water on his face, but when he touches his lips and draws his fingers away, he sees the bright coppery crimson of blood. The jagged sensation of ripping, something shredding to bits inside him, hits again, and he shouts, a violent thing, wrenched from somewhere inside, forced from his vulnerable core. 

He blinks his eyes, bleary, the agony dulling to a shivering, consuming ache—but he can think, at least a little, maybe. Shaking, he pats at his face again, drawing his fingers away to see more blood. He lets out a long groan and shoves himself off his bed, sliding to the floor with a shuddering thud. It’s still dark outside, the moon high enough to cast long, ghostly shadows across his room. His awareness is completely _fucked_ —his vision wobbles as he blinks, and there’s something, something sitting at the edge of his rational thought, some _explanation_. There was something that had worried him but—it escapes him. 

He’s shuffling on his knees, trying to get to the door—he has to get _out,_ get downstairs—to—to—who? And—someone did this to him, didn’t they? He doesn’t know anything; it’s sitting on the tip of his brain all mixed up with the confusion of sleep and the slow, throbbing ache of wrongness at his center, and he’s pulling his thoughts together like the contents of a bag that spilled and keeps spilling, the contents falling through his fingers. He almost grasps hold of the thought—when the spell—the curse, whatever it is—hits him again, hammering ragged and disorganized in his chest, expanding into a miasmic haze, consuming him, cocooning him until all he can feel is its nauseous rhythm. 

He’s making himself crawl—crawl to the door—he has to get to— He can hear screaming coming from somewhere in the Cottage, and the sound of it bunches up inside him, pulling him, pulling him out, and he’s opening his door and rolling into the hall, wearing only his boxers— _at least they’re the nice silk ones so he’ll look appealing_ —it slams into him again, and he he cries out, his voice strangled, his insides crumbling, and everything goes black. 

~~***~~

When Eliot comes to, he’s in the infirmary. He can’t open his eyes; they feel heavy, glued shut. There’s an IV in his arm, and he thinks that might have something to do with the weight of his eyelids, a deep soothing feeling tamping down the bright ripping force of the spell. The ache is still there, but it’s different, like he’s not being ripped apart from the inside. And he doesn’t feel like he’s going to vomit up his organs anymore, so that’s a plus. His hearing fuzzes in and out, but he can hear people talking. The low rumble of Dean Fogg’s voice, Lipson’s clippy drawl, and—

“...you’re telling me these two dicklicks got themselves fucking _bound_ together? Some sort of teenage howling at the moon Twilight: Breaking Dawn bullshit?” She laughs, exasperated. “Can’t we get a curse breaker in here from...”

“... definitely more serious than that, Miss Hanson. It’s old magic, employed since pre-Arthurian times as a blood-bound revenge curse. And, of course, it depends not only on the internal Circumstances of the caster but also on the individuals cursed as to how serious it may...”

“... new moon currently, and the enchantment seems to be dependent on lunar phases, so there may be an increase in the intensity closer to the…”

“... told him it was a _fucking stupid_ idea for a date…”

He can’t tell who’s talking anymore. Margo’s voice fades into Lipson’s fades into Fogg’s.

Eliot lets out a long, shaky groan and tries to turn in the bed. Sensation comes back to him slowly—pain in back and legs back like every muscle has been pulled out, lightly beaten, and shoved back inside. His head pounds with the strength of ten hangovers, and there’s dried blood over his nose and lips. When he tries to move his hand, it’s definitely holding onto something, someone. Someone’s fingers. He drops the hand and—a bolt of agony sears from the base of his palm to his shoulder. He cries out and cradles his arm, the crushing force of whatever _old magic_ flooding his body again and he’s shaking, his voice coming in hot gasps. 

“My arm—oh _Jesus fuck_ —Bambi—”

There’s an echo of his cries from just next to him, a low, hurt sobbing that twists something in Eliot’s core, swirling in a sick rush in the pit of Eliot’s stomach. 

“El, honey.” Margo’s voice bites through the webs of agony crisscrossing his rational thought. There’s a dip on the bed, and there’s still crying coming from the bed next to his, cutting through his layers and stinging like the tip of a sharp, poisoned arrow. Margo is moving his hand, and he shouts, but she’s linking his fingers with hers—no, not hers. His body stills, the slap of the magic dulling to a low, background hum. “Baby, you’re gonna need to be still, okay—you gotta hold onto Quentin til we figure this out—”

“Never seen one this bad,” Lipson says. Eliot can hear her sorting through tools. When he blearily opens his eyes, she’s holding up a set of tempered glass lenses, fixing Eliot in the path of her gaze. “Fascinating. You said they went into the city?”

“Yeah, on some errand—when I say ‘errand,’ I mean it was a ‘date’—that included fucknut number two over here—”

“Marina,” Eliot chokes out, his throat raw and stinging. “She threw some kind of curse at us before we left. And it wasn’t a _date_.” 

Something squeezes his hand, and he turns, blinking slow, to see Quentin on the bed next to his, pale and shivering, tears streaking down his cheeks, a dried trickle of blood beneath one nostril. He squeezes Eliot’s hand again, but his expression stays etched with pain.

“Marina Andrieski—former student—this is definitely in her wheelhouse,” Fogg says, sounding bizarrely impressed. “The type of spell a student of her caliber would be able to master, even without access to most of her memories of courses here at Brakebills. Astonishing.”

“The fuck? It sounds like you’re actually proud of this bitch,” Margo snaps. “Eliot almost _died_. His heart actually stopped.”

“Granted, it’s impressive spellwork. It’s almost giving _me_ a boner,” Lipson says. 

He hears Fogg talking with Lipson, Margo arguing with them, but it fades into the background. He’s looking at Quentin, his big brown eyes and the gentle curl of his long eyelashes. Quentin is all he can see, and _God_ , despite the gnawing, angry thing inside him, twinging up his spine, despite the gray tone of Quentin’s lips and the pallor of his skin, Quentin is the fucking loveliest thing he’s ever seen. That’s not a _new_ reaction to Quentin, but the thought is crystallized, present in a wholly new way. The touch of Quentin’s fingertips against his is electrifying, sending prickles along his forearms. Quentin wiggles a few inches closer to Eliot, giving him more of his hand. 

“...must have at least three hours of sustained contact after moonrise… should be able to get around it when we get a cursebreaker here to make a counter-charm. Now I don’t know if this spell can be… ” Lipson’s words dodge in and out of his conscious mind. He can’t make himself absorb the words, not with Quentin right there, all soft and brown-eyed and prettily strong-jawed.

“Hey, El. You okay?” Quentin’s voice is gravelly, and he coughs after the words tumble out. 

“Never better,” Eliot says, which makes Quentin crack a smile and _oh_ , his dimples. 

“...these two brainless morons went and tangled with the one bitch who can fuck them up—there’s gotta be an easy fucking fix for this. After the charm or whatever...”

“...afraid it’s more complicated than that, Miss Hanson. There isn’t a skilled enough curse breaker in the Tri-State Area. We can bring in one of our alumnae from Bulgaria, but he’s on an assignment currently and it’ll be at least a month, maybe longer, before he’s available and near enough to a portal—”

“Bitch, what the fuck—”

“Please do not call me a ‘bitch,’ Miss Hanson,” Fogg says. 

Quentin’s smile widens, but he’s still shivering, and Eliot wants nothing more than to draw him into his arms. He moves his hand experimentally, shifting it so that he’s encircling Quentin’s wrist. A pleased little tingle runs down the back of his neck, pleasure floating through him and soothing the pain away. His mind is too heavy to focus; he just _wants_ Quentin, next to him, pressed skin to skin. But, no—they can’t—and that’s not what Quentin wants. 

“... they’ll need to maintain physical contact in the early morning. Is there some way I can cast that curse on myself and roll into bed with your friend?” 

Margo snorts. “No offense, but I don’t think you're his type.”

“That’s a damn shame,” Lipson deadpans. “Wouldn’t mind taking the other one for a spin, either.”

“ _Wow_ ,” Margo says. “Why is she employed here?”

“I can assure you Eleanor is the best there is.”

“If you’re looking for healing methods include sexual harassment, then she certainly seems like it.”

A long sigh, followed by more arguing and then Lipson’s voice again. “This spell is set up so that it’ll be exceptionally difficult for them to stay apart. And they’ll go through the same thing they did tonight if they do. What I’m saying is—”

“You’re medically prescribing a crack fanfiction trope?” 

“While I comprehend each of those words individually, I certainly don’t understand them in this context, Miss Hanson.” Fogg sounds thoroughly unamused, but that’s sort of how he always sounds, so it’s no surprise. 

There’s a lot of hemming and hawing about logistics and something about Brakebills South and the trials, and Eliot’s way too out of it to care. Whatever potion they’re pumping him full of is absolutely the _good shit_. And whatever magic is coursing through him, flowing from the nexus of his hand against Quentin’s arms—God, he can’t be bothered by it right now—is making him feel light and airy and _fuck_ , sort of turned on. He’s sure it’s not that serious; it can’t be. Marina’s a hedge. There’s got to be a solution for this. 

Finally, like Lipson’s remembered she actually has patients, she appears at the foot of their pushed together beds. “You two sleep here for now. No fucking in my infirmary. Got it?”

“Fucking?” Quentin asks, a crease appearing between his brows. 

Lipson gives them something between an exasperated sigh and a laugh. She looks like she’s going to say something but decides she’d better not. “Just keep holding hands, and you’ll be fine. It’s four in the morning now, so get some sleep, and you can go to classes like usual Monday morning—”

“I have to go to _class_?” Eliot groans. Quentin squeezes his wrist where he holds it; sparks bloom beneath his touch, rolling up Eliot’s arm. The little hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Yes. Fogg’s not letting you off the hook for classes since the curse is mostly dormant during the day. The spell will focus its attention on keeping you together at night.”

“You’re talking about it like it’s a—a—a _sentient_ fucking enchantment,” Quentin says blearily. He absently rubs his thumb over Eliot’s wrist. 

“In a way, all spells are sentient. They have drive and purpose. The caster wants something when they cast, and they draw on ambient magic and change it. The spell is an extension of the magician. So this spell—a curse—was historically used to cripple enemies so they couldn’t go anywhere for long without their—” She gestures to Quentin and Eliot. “—bonded companion.”

“It’s a—um—bonding enchantment?” Quentin squirms in his bed, all anxious energy, and scoots even closer to Eliot. “So that’s like—the curse is attached to our bodies and—um—”

“And your magic,” she says. 

Margo sits down and takes Eliot’s free hand. “You’ll be fine. You just gotta share a bed with Coldwater without losing your mind until we figure out how to fix this.”

“That’ll be—” Eliot swallows hard, his throat clicking. “That’ll be _fine_. Definitely not a big deal.”

“El, we can’t do that—I mean, you can’t do that. That’s—that’s—” Quentin says, a tinge of desperation to his voice that makes Eliot’s chest grow tight. 

“Q, I’m not going to—it’ll be just fine. We can find lots of workarounds.” _So you can keep jerking off about Alice_ , he thinks. But he doesn’t say. Doesn’t want to say it. “We’re friends. It won’t be weird.”

“It can be intense—the bond—from what I understand,” Lipson says, looking between them like she’s working something out. “I’ve never seen one quite this... intricate.”

Eliot’s stomach grows cold, flops like a dying fish. The warmth and light flowing through him, calling out to him—it’s _already_ intense. Whatever the magic is, it’s picking out all the pieces of Eliot’s… thing for Quentin. He wouldn’t go so far as to call it a _crush_. Just a thing. And a minor one at that.

He’s Eliot Waugh. He survived Indiana and his father, and he made it all the way to his second year at a fucking grad school for magic that takes a cavalier attitude toward student safety. He can slam doors and pour drinks with his mind. And a curse from a bitchy hedge isn’t going to alter his life. 

Lipson is still talking, something about the moon and the bond and compromises that might be necessary regarding sleep and personal space. But Eliot is focused on Quentin’s fingertips, the warmth of them against his skin.

“...so you’ll want to make note of the phases of the moon. The curse is cyclic...”

“So they have a heavier flow when the moon shows her tits? Got it.”

“This is serious, Miss Hanson.” Fogg again. 

“Yeah, yeah. I got it. I’ll download a fucking moon calendar and staple it to their foreheads,” Margo says, pulling out her phone. 

“Miss Hanson,” Eliot hears Fogg say. “No electronics are allowed on—”

“Listen, everyone here has a fucking phone, _Henry_. Would you rather have two dead students or one who’s able to keep track of them so they don’t get more dicked up than they already are?”

But Eliot is drifting off again, and it’s not a big deal, really, for Quentin to hold his hand. A few hours a night—they can do that. It doesn’t have to be a _thing_. 

~~***~~

It turns out, it’s more of a thing than he thinks—but it’s absolutely manageable. He can handle his shit until the Bulgarian curse-breaker can sort them the fuck out. 

If Eliot had a hard time not thinking about fucking Quentin’s mouth whenever he was within a ten foot radius—well, it’s a lot worse when the physical embodiment of everything your fifteen year old self wanted in a boyfriend is sleeping in your bed. 

The first week after the curse coincides with the waxing crescent moon, and Eliot thinks it’s not a big deal, really. Quentin sets an alarm for himself and comes grumbling into Eliot’s room adorable and sleepy-eyed, his hair all mussed, around one in the morning every night. He crawls into bed without comment, wearing his flannel pajama bottoms—it seems he has two pairs; one with a pattern of golden retrievers wearing festive scarves and one bearing a pattern of storm troopers on a navy background—and a well-worn ‘It’s Better in Fillory’ tee that he does a cleaning spell on every few days. It’s objectively a little gross that he does that, but it’s definitely on brand for Quentin’s version of depression-lazy, and Quentin smells fucking _good_. All the time. Extra fucking good, in fact, since the curse started. Like orange-scented deodorant and Spring Meadow Tide pods and rosemary shampoo, and a muskiness beneath it all that’s _just him_. 

It’s all deliciously cute, but it’s not _awful_. Yeah, Eliot is jerking off in the shower—sometimes twice a day—thinking about that lovely pout and the dark hair on his elegant forearms, and the way his fingers quirk when he’s casting and what they might feel like wrapped around his dick. But honestly, he was jerking off about Quentin before. This isn’t much different. He just has more material. And the touching—well, it’s _nice_ , but it’s nothing more than platonic. 

There is the warm fizzing sensation accompanying the touching—it’s like a combo of a Xanax and a hit of good weed with a side of half a magical drug he’d tried at Encanto that made you feel like you were floating down a river of cotton candy. So that’s _nice_. It’s just nice, that’s all. He can handle this. And he can handle it when it ramps up because he’s a man who can handle things. Even things like Quentin’s presence in his bed.

They talk a little sometimes before they drift off to sleep, and they hold hands or touch feet from the time Quentin snuggles beneath Eliot’s covers until they wake up. It’s putting a bit of a damper on Eliot’s sex life, but it’s not a big deal. Two days after the curse, he blew a guy in the early part of one evening and got a decent handjob in return, and he happily had an excuse to kick him out. 

Honestly, right now, he prefers jerking off in the shower while he thinks of Quentin’s firm little ass. The touching they do is enough to give him impressive morning wood, and the relief he feels is—well, _fuck_ , it feels goddamn incredible. At once both soothing and potent, and he usually has that scent of Quentin in his mind still when he unashamedly leaves the bed for the shower. It feels _good_ to touch him. It’s not _devastating_ , not lethal—not the way it was that first night. They touch. They appease the curse. They go to class. Well, Quentin goes to class.

It’s early in the evening of the seventh day post-curse when things start to get _weird_. Eliot can feel the shift after the sun starts sinking, casting long shadows over his room. He’s actually studying so he can pass his herbology course, so he can feel it coming on in a way that he wouldn’t be able to sense if he were drinking or dancing or fucking. The first sign that tonight is _different_ is the creeping prickle that starts at the base of his spine. It’s like an itch, sitting there beneath layers of skin and fascia, tugging at him every so often, sending a vague discomfort through the web of his nerves.

He thinks, at first, he must be making it up, but when the feeling grows to something akin to pain or the beginning of it, anyway, he knows—beyond any doubt—that the curse is fucking with him. There’s a tendril of something foreign crawling through his center, reaching out and demanding attention. He ignores it and continues flipping through his flashcards, repeating the names of plants to himself and trying not to think about the bond.

But Eliot’s mind keeps drifting back to the turn of Quentin’s jaw, the slope of his nose, the strength in his shoulders and his thick, furred thighs, the dense warmth of his body lying next to Eliot in the dark. And it’s—it’s distracting; that’s all it is. He cracks his knuckles and continues on, shifting in his chair, just the _slightest_ bit uncomfortable. He and Q are together from one in the morning to usually around sunrise and—that’s _more_ than enough to appease the curse. He thinks. Enough to keep them alive, intact.

After another hour or so of mildly irritating crackles traveling up his spine, there’s a knock at his door. It’s early yet, so it shouldn’t be Q. But when Eliot snaps his fingers and the door swings open, it is in fact Quentin, and he’s holding his pillow and his backpack. His expression is a bit uncomfortable, almost _guilty_ , if Eliot had put a word on it. “I, um.”

“Come in, Quentin,” Eliot says, looking back to his notes on healing herbs and ignoring the pulling sensation that begins to take hold in his gut. 

“I’m just—you know. A little, like. Tense? I guess. And I think like it’s close to a waxing gibbous moon? Margo said. When I saw her downstairs. That it’s close to that, um. A waxing gibbous moon.”

“Oh?” Eliot doesn’t look up. A low humming picks up in his blood. He can almost _smell_ Quentin from across the room, fresh and clean and pleasantly rumpled; Eliot’s fingers twitch, the thread of magic that binds them clicking on and plucking at him.

“Lipson said—and um, Alice was doing some research—it’ll be a lot easier on both of us if we’re together the whole night—I think. Uh, like...” Eliot’s mind is picking up about every other word; when he raises his eyes to Quentin, he focuses on the soft, squiggly line of Quentin’s lips. “...and I’m just really tired. So. I can study in your bed and like. You can get in when you’re ready to go to bed. And—I can make myself really small.”

Eliot taps his pencil against his botany book. Eliot wants to ruck up his shirt and get a good look at him. “You can _what_?”

“I mean, I can huddle up against the wall—”

“You can huddle up. Against the wall? My bed isn’t on a wall.”

Quentin looks over at the bed like he’s never seen it before. “Oh. I mean. I know you—like, want your space. This isn’t ideal. So I’ll just curl up on, like, a corner.”

“Q, it’s a king size bed.”

“Yeah, but. You know—we don’t have to touch the whole night. I know it’s—I know it’s already put—like—a restriction on your nightly, um. Activities?”

“What, pray tell, are you talking about?” Eliot knows exactly what Quentin is talking about, but he wants to hear him say it, wants to see him blush. His stomach does a little flip when he imagines Quentin thinking about Eliot with other boys. In _that_ way. For a split second, Eliot wonders if Quentin is _jealous_. But no—the curse is the only thing guiding this conversation. It has to be.

“I mean. I saw—that guy. Come out of here before—um. On Tuesday last week.” Quentin’s cheeks blossom with color, spreading like a drop of paint on a wet canvas. 

“Oh, that was Devon.” Eliot watches as Quentin’s blush deepens, his eyes darting from side to side. “He’s a friend.”

“Um, I’m just saying. I know that I’m—limiting the amount of ‘friends’ you can have over.” Quentin does air quotes when he says ‘friends,’ and his pillow falls to the floor. He looks at it like it’s betrayed him.

“You’re not my mom, Q. I can have people over whenever I want.” 

Quentin blinks, his lips parting to reveal his soft, pink tongue. “That’s not what I—I mean—I’m sleeping here like six hours a night, and with the moon waxing, it’s, um, my body feels really weird? I don’t know, like, if you’re seeing anyone. Or if you want to bring anyone here—to your, uh. Room.”

“Mm. You asking if you can join in? There are absolutely ways I can maintain physical contact with you while fucking someone else.” He bites his lip and watches as Quentin’s eyes flick down to his mouth. He hasn’t been this forward before, but he feels—less like he’s on a mildly relaxing magical drug combo and more like he’s taken two shots of bourbon and a hit of ecstasy. 

“Oh—um, _no_. I’d rather. That not be a thing. That happens.” Quentin swallows, crosses his arms, and uncrosses them. 

“Then I can fuck anyone I want to during the day. I don’t generally go to class. So, that’s settled. You’re not interfering with my sex life.” Eliot makes a move to go back to his herbology textbook, even though he’s _far_ more interested in whatever seems to be going on with Quentin. He’s looking at Eliot expectantly, the blush still bright across his cheeks like it’s been powdered on.

“What was it I can help you with?” If he’s not mistaken, Quentin wants to get in his bed. Right now. He wants to recline and read or practices spells or whatever the fuck Quentin does when he studies. Which Eliot can accommodate. 

He’s all too aware that he’s not Quentin’s type. But the threads of magic that sit twisted within him light up with need. He can be in Eliot’s bed, and Eliot can touch him. It’s a requirement. And it feels so _good_ , maybe even better now that the moon is doing its moon thing. Eliot shivers; his head swims.

He’s put out some feelers to the hedges he knows—Marina has disappeared off the map. He could go a little harder with the whole breaking-the-curse thing, but he’s not in any hurry. No, he thinks, eyes skimming over Quentin, he’s not in any fucking hurry.

“Um. I can just. Study in here if you’re not having company.” Quentin looks at the pillow at his feet and stoops to pick it up. His shirt comes untucked on the way up, revealing a strip of lightly furred belly. Eliot bites his lip. 

“Do I look like I’m having company?” Really, this is the most shit he’s given Quentin since this whole thing started. It’s been fairly casual—Quentin slipping in his bed without fanfare, holding his hand, waking up still a foot or two apart in Eliot’s bed, only their fingers entwined. But tonight feels charged, somehow, like the wire between them has been electrified.

“Um. Not at the moment.” Quentin clutches his pillow to his chest, tucks his chin down. Like he’s showing up for a slumber party at an unfamiliar location.

“Then, you’re absolutely welcome. It’ll be nice. A boys’ study session,” Eliot says, enunciating each syllable. 

Quentin ducks his head and gently places his pillow on Eliot’s bed. After some awkward shuffling, Quentin ends up perched on the opposite side of the bed, reading through _Hanou’s Practicum on Non-Psychic Magicks and Bodily Enchantments_. Eliot can feel Quentin looking at him from time to time, and Eliot can’t blame him. Eliot is very purposefully good for looking at, and that book is boring as absolute fuck. 

They carry on like that until it’s midnight and Quentin is yawning. It’s then that Quentin slips under the covers of what’s become his side of the bed, taking a sip from his water bottle before huddling down in the blankets. His lips are wet when he lies down. “I like your bed. More comfortable than mine.”

“Mm, for all my overnight guests.” 

“Guess that’s why you’ve got, uh. So many suitors,” Quentin says, laughing a little. 

Eliot's mouth tugs into a little smile, and he gazes at his current nightly companion, the soft curve of his shoulders, the silky hair falling over his forehead. He suppresses a shiver. “I can assure you that there are far more interesting reasons to come to my bed than a good night’s sleep.”

Quentin doesn’t say anything to that. He just watches Eliot.

The bond, faint before, quivers beneath his skin now. It’ll be a relief, a fucking relief, to get what he _wants_ , which is Quentin’s skin against his. Eliot doesn’t know why he wears that stupid shirt, for fuck’s sake.

Eliot makes quick work of stripping out of his clothes, placing his shirt and pants on their respective hangers and hitting them with a cleaning spell before performing his nightly skincare routine—well, the quick version of it. His nipples harden, and the muscles of his lower back go tight at the thought of Q already in his bed. 

_Fucking calm down,_ he tells himself _. This is the goddamn moon’s fault_.

Q has spent each of the last six mornings in bed with Eliot, but they’ve never fallen asleep together, and there’s something intimate about that. Getting ready in front of him. Not drunk or high, not falling into bed with a random boy after a Cottage party. Quentin is just there, being pretty, snuggling and waiting. 

A frisson of excitement hits him when he pulls the covers back. Quentin’s hair is splayed out like a dark halo on his flannel pillowcase, his wide brown eyes on Eliot.

When Eliot finally slides into bed, the pain hits him hard and fast, chills and aches like the flu, worse the closer he — _fuck_ , it’s early in the night for this. He groans as he flicks the light off—he _needs_ to touch Quentin. It’s getting to Quentin, too; he’s squirming beneath the covers and reaching for Eliot’s hand. When they’ve touched before, it’s felt like—icy relief. The absence of heat, a cure for the violent pain they’d both felt that first night. But. Tonight is—

Eliot’s hand encircles Quentin’s forearm, and Quentin jolts. “ _Oh_. That’s—”

“Different,” Eliot says. “ _Fuck_.” A charge like lightning hits him, the air around him shifting, sensation morphing into a thick, smoky blaze, climbing through him, consuming his consciousness and threatening to turn him inside out. 

“More— _sensitive_ ,” Quentin says, his voice breathy and light. 

Eliot draws closer to him, groping desperately for Quentin’s other arm, sliding his hand up to the crook of Quentin’s elbow and grasping him, pressed forearm to forearm. His breath comes in short pants, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from mauling Quentin’s stupid sexy mouth. 

“It’s—” Eliot starts. He shakes his head. “—it’s like—”

“I feel hot,” Quentin says, shaking the covers off and revealing the lines of his dense little form. “Do you feel hot?”

“Maybe you just,” he hears himself saying, “have on too many clothes.” Eliot’s kicking the blankets off his legs without meaning to, and yeah, his cheeks are burning, his forehead beading up with sweat as the threads of magic inside gather and reach for Quentin, drawing toward him like a magnet. His teeth are chattering, sharp pain forming beneath his breastbone. 

“Do you feel—” Quentin’s voice trails off, husky and low. “D’you—”

“Yeah.” He blinks. His breath is wet and ragged. “I think—you—more skin. We should—” He’s shaking his head again, like he’s reassuring himself or Quentin. “—it won’t be weird. Just. If you take your shirt off—”

“You’ll show me how—” Quentin chokes out. “—comfortable the bed is?” 

Eliot barks out a laugh. “Yeah s’just for the curse. So we can sleep.”

“Yeah I just—I’ve gotta let go. Probably not a good—” Quentin pants, his breath hot against Eliot’s cheek. He’s so close. Eliot doesn’t think they’ve ever been this _close_. He smells incredible; Eliot just wants to bury his nose in all that hair, rub his face all over it like he’s a cat and Quentin’s a particular appealing patch of carpet.

“Let me,” Eliot says, entirely unable to continue the thought. He slides one hand off of Quentin’s arm and lifts his shirt, snaking his hand across the warm plane of his abdomen.

Quentin _moans_ and pushes into Eliot’s hand. He’s wriggling closer, pressing his toes to Eliot’s ankles, sending a glittering rush of sensation up his legs, the pulsing heart of it gathering heavy in his hips. But Eliot, despite the ache in his cock, the singular feeling of stiffening up, the strain against fabric, the need for release—he’s got a mission. He slides his other hand away from Quentin’s arm and, shaking, slips it beneath his shirt, pressing it flat against the center of his chest. 

It’s a great idea. Maybe the best idea he’s ever had because he’s incandescent, the heat of Quentin’s flesh suffusing his hands, light and energy and magic blooming beneath his skin. Quentin is panting and twitching and clearly trying to contain himself. But Eliot doesn’t really give a fuck at this point and he needs—

“Q, take your fucking shirt off.”

“Uh. Um—oh my God. What is—” Quentin is shaking, his voice edged with—something—Eliot can’t put a finger on it.

“Come on—take it off. It needs to be actually washed anyway.”

“— _happening_? What’s—” Quentin’s voice just trails off and he’s panting hard, completely frozen, and he’s not _close enough_. Eliot needs to press all of his skin against all of Quentin’s skin, and nothing is more important than that. His mind is whiting out with the unbridled need, the bone-deep certainty that rocks within him. He has to see him, touch him, fucking crawl inside him. 

“Q, get this shirt off—”

“Uh—” Quentin isn’t moving, just looking at Eliot with wide, shocked eyes. “Uh—I’m. I can’t. Move. I don’t know—I’ve—I’m _not okay_.” 

“Fine,” Eliot says through gritted teeth. Eliot rucks up his shirt the rest of the way, careful to keep his hands against Quentin’s skin. Losing contact—he can’t even—he doesn’t want the _pain_ , but he doesn’t want the feeling of this, whatever this is, to evaporate, the bonds of the magic fading into mist around them. Quentin makes an unearthly, feathery light sound like he’s out of his goddamn mind, and Eliot somehow manages to pull off his stupid shirt with one hand and zero help from Quentin, who’s about as useful as a bag of rocks. The reward when he tosses Quentin’s shirt aside is _all_ of Quentin’s chest pressed against all of his—the hard, masculine lines of his torso, the furrowed notches of his ribs where Eliot runs his fingers and sighs, relieved. 

Quentin is still—fucking _vibrating_ like he’s going to jettison himself into space, and Eliot pets over his arms, shushing him. “Hey, it’s okay. This is—”

_This is hot. Let’s fucking—roll with it. We’re young and pretty—_

“This is weird,” Eliot continues. Because he can be normal. They go to a magic school and this shit happens, and he is not going to molest one of his only friends. “Is it okay if I—”

_Grab your cock because I have a theory that would be a phenomenal idea—_

“—keep touching your upper body?”

“Mnnyeah,” Quentin says, arching his back reflexively, pushing against Eliot, pressing in closer, the soft patch of hair on his broad chest, the flat of his belly and— _fuck_ —the line of his cock in his fucking flannel pajama bottoms. “You feel so warm—and good—and—big. You’re _big._ ”

“Flattery—” Quentin’s face presses into his neck, which causes Eliot a great deal more anxiety than he was already coping with, the sweat on Quentin’s forehead mingling with Eliot’s, sending stars floating through his brain, like he’s Wile E. Coyote and Quentin is the fucking roadrunner—or like he ate one too many shrooms—possibly both, even though that makes _zero_ sense. Jesus, what’s it going to be like at the full moon?

“Will what?” Quentin mumbles against his neck.

“Hm?”

“You said flattery—”

Even without the use of his whole fucking brain, Quentin is, shockingly, still a brat.

“It’ll get you everywhere. Anywhere. Whichever of those—” Eliot _squeezes_ Quentin’s shoulder just to feel the rush of lightness pouring up his arm, his stomach tight and cock twitching. “—that it is.”

Quentin shivers against him, sending an electric wave through Eliot, pinpoints expanding out from Quentin’s hands and fingers, all the places they’re touching. And Jesus—Quentin shouldn’t be wearing pants. Eliot wants to feel it in his legs, what the bond wants—skin and touch and the solid soft press of muscle. 

“You feel—your body just—” Quentin’s fingers tangle in his chest hair, and he tugs absently at it, sending a jolt to Eliot’s already straining cock. “—feels so fucking good.”

Eliot’s blood is molten, lit from within, moving like magma rising from the earth. It doesn’t help his restraint when Quentin is saying things like _that_ , his hand tentatively running up Eliot’s arm and brushing over the crest of his shoulder. He makes a choked-off noise and rubs his cheek against Quentin’s head, his hair like fine silk.

“This is weird—I know this is weird,” Eliot starts. He’s been in bed with lots of boys. He’s been high on magic drugs and done a lot of wild sex magic and done them both at the same time, but this is Quentin. He’s not one of Eliot’s boys. He’s both something before that line and beyond it.

Quentin lets out a little huff, not quite a laugh. “Yeah, it’s fucking weird, Eliot.” He sounds a little put out, like it’s Eliot’s fault they’re tangled up with their dicks just about touching. “But it’s, uh, nice. And we can—try to—just hold hands again—”

“Yeah, okay,” Eliot says weakly. Everything in him is screaming to keep holding, keep touching, draw in closer. When he pulls back, his skin stings like he’s been subjected to ten hours on the beach sans sunscreen, and Quentin sobs as he tries to take Eliot’s hands, tries to do what they’d been doing successfully for the past week.

“I can’t—I can’t—” Quentin is hyperventilating, and Eliot wants to offer Quentin his mouth to breathe into—but instead, Eliot gathers Quentin into his arms and wraps him up.

“It’s fine. It’s okay. We can sleep like this and we’ll get it all sorted, okay?” Eliot won’t be able to get to sleep with his dick this hard. He’s just not going to say anything about it because this is fucked up enough already, and Quentin feels so warm and good in his arms, his breath hot against Eliot’s shoulder, legs crooked just so and pressed between his. 

“It’ll be okay,” Quentin repeats. “Maybe—maybe we can find something in the library… in the, uh.”

Quentin’s voice trails off, and Eliot realizes—mildly horrified, but only mildly—that he’s stroking Quentin’s back, but Quentin sighs, melting against Eliot, his hot mouth so close to Eliot’s skin. 

He needs that mouth on his skin, can imagine Quentin’s tongue flicking out, hot and velvety against the flesh of his neck.

“We’ll find something,” he says, only mildly guilty that he hasn’t leaned on any of his sources in the city. 

“Okay,” Quentin says, his voice very small. He wants to pull Quentin in closer, wrap him tight and reassure him. But then he’d be subjected to the full length of Eliot’s dick, and it appears they’re just going to go on and ignore it for the time being. And fuck it—Eliot can just stay positioned very, very carefully and not just rub his cock over the expanse of Quentin’s lovely soft-furred stomach. He’s a _nerd_ who doesn’t do anything—and he’s got an unfairly nice body, lean and strong and muscled. 

Eliot’s never getting to sleep, is he? He can skip classes tomorrow and doze the day away, and then he’ll put some concerted effort into figuring this curse shit out.

God, he wishes they were naked. Why can’t Quentin just not be _straight_? 

He keeps petting along the lines of Quentin’s back, soothing him for long minutes, staring at his window, where the moonlight shines through. He tries to ignore the insistent heat thrumming inside him, growing out from the touch of Quentin’s fingertips, expanding out in what feels like—fractals—hunger and pleasure winding together into intricate patterns beneath his skin. It’s pleasant now—intense, yes, but pleasant—almost like the results of a little pill he took last year at Encanto that put him into dreamland for an entire day—but there’s an edge to it, an edge of waiting and wanting, and he wishes he could knock it out of his skin.

It’s a good while after that he thinks Quentin might have fallen asleep. For his part, Eliot’s dick is iron-hard, but Quentin is still beside him; his body, if not exactly relaxed, is at least settled against the mattress. Eliot tries to close his own eyes, but when he does, it’s worse, the breadth of his desire invading his cell walls, cracking into his DNA. He tries to empty his mind of it, but he’s coming up short, nearly shaking in his need, his body trembling with it.

“Eliot?” Quentin’s voice sounds small and lost in the vast darkness of his room.

Eliot bites the inside of his cheek; he swears he can feel the thrum of the curse beneath Quentin’s skin, the heartbeat of the curse _ticking-ticking-ticking_ in time with the tendrils of magic that sit inside his skin, made somehow worse by the questioning-desperate tone of Quentin’s voice. The inside of Eliot’s throat is hot, his breath shaky. 

_Like a bad trip_ , Eliot thinks. _Like the little pill at Encanto got laced with meth and LSD and_ — And the only thing that would give him respite is—

—Quentin’s mouth pressed to the hollow of his neck, Eliot’s fingers petting against the warm velvet of his tongue, magic prickling against his fingertips, the weight of Quentin’s dick against his thigh, Eliot’s fingers, his cock, inside Quentin. It’s what the bond wants. It hadn’t occurred to him that the union it sought was necessarily _exactly_ this—yeah, Eliot is fully a dumbass, he knows; Margo probably already knew this and is just _waiting_ to see them slink out of Eliot’s room all bruised up and fucked out—he’s suddenly irrationally furious with Margo for _not_ telling him.

Well, maybe she had. Well, fuck.

_Use protection, baby. You don’t wanna knock him up before you put a ring on it._

_Is he a show-er or a grow-er? Give me the deets on that nerd dick._

_Moon is waxing, you cock. Better get your boyfriend to bed._

Okay, well. He can’t be blamed for not knowing. Or not realizing. Whatever.

He gets it now. How the curse works. Why it works.

It’s a proper distraction, the need to be whole, the desire to join with hands and hips, to push inside and claw into the twin tender-aching hunger that sits at the core of someone else. Wanting so much that it lives beneath your skin, a dark creature of need, reaching out to the magnetic pull of its mate. Like the books, ever searching each other out. 

If he were some general waging war, it would certainly be an inconvenience to be bound like this to his lieutenant or colonel or whatever generals have beneath them. He laughs, crazed. _What the fuck_?

“Eliot?” Quentin repeats. His voice sends a jolt of crisp, clear need from his stiff nipples down to his balls, heavy and tight and tender.

Eliot swallows hard, attempting to breath through the violent rush inside—but all he can think of is pressing his cock to Quentin’s lips and parting them, his hot wet tongue on the head of Eliot’s dick, his eyes fluttering closed— “Yeah?”

“I’m not going to get to sleep unless I—” Quentin stops, shuddering against Eliot.

“It’s okay—whatever it is,” Eliot says, stroking one hand over Quentin’s back. It’s such a _nice_ back.

He thinks—he could buck forward along the elegant sharp line of Quentin’s hip, rutting against him with his hands on the firm curve of his ass, pull out his cock and come in spurts across his belly, claiming him with evidence of his unbearable wanting.

“I’m. Not so sure about that. I need to—I mean, I know you don’t want to but— _Eliot_. I need—” Quentin squirms against him and lets out a desperate little whine that makes Eliot feel something terrifyingly raw and driving and primal. He wants to crawl out of his skin and sink into Quentin’s bones.

“What do you need, Q?” His voice comes out rough, and Quentin twitches again, sending a shocked little thrill through his body. He absently rolls his hips, covering his moan with a laugh when his cock brushes against Quentin’s thigh. 

“I need to—I need to _come_. I’m _sorry_ ,” he chokes out. “I just—I really need to. So I can sleep. And go to class. I really, really, really need to—to—jerk off, I think. I can turn against the wall and like—if—you maybe could touch my back. Or my waist—” His voice cracks on the last word.

“There’s no wall next to my bed, Quentin,” Eliot says wildly.

“I just need to come—okay? I really, really need to.” Quentin pants, wet and ragged.

Eliot goes very still. It’s not like he hadn’t considered in the past week that Quentin might feel what Eliot did; he’d thought about it a few times—while he was jerking off—and pushed it out of his head immediately. A method of self preservation. He has a choice here, he thinks, in a weird slow motion moment of clarity. He can agree to Quentin’s plan, such as it is, and they can salvage—something? Not cross whatever line exists between them, infringe on Quentin’s straight self-concept.

“I need to—as well,” Eliot says, his voice jagged at its edges. “I think it’s—necessary for the spell. For the sake of sleep. Honestly, the reasonable thing here is, well.”

“Is what exactly?”

“We should,” Eliot says, trying for all the world to imbue his words with authority, “jerk off together. We can face each other and I can hold you like this—” Eliot hitches Quentin a little closer, his hand splayed out across Quentin’s back. “—and then we can clean up and sleep. Okay?”

He thinks it sounds _reasonable_. Really. Quite reasonable. Absently, he raises his hand to Quentin’s hair, lifting and letting it fall through his fingers. His hand settles against the back of Quentin’s neck, and Quentin goes weak, pliant, letting out a whimper that sends a jolt to Eliot’s dick. 

“I know you don’t want me—like that—so it’s probably _weird_.”

Eliot huffs, a little breath of laughter. He might be losing what little is left of his mind. No, he definitely is. “Q, don’t be stupid.”

“What? I mean—”

“Let’s just do this,” Eliot says, miserable. “It’ll feel—” The magic in Eliot’s core jumps, reaching out, needling at him, pulling through the muscles in his core. “—good. It’ll be good. And we can sleep.”

“Yeah, okay,” Quentin says, so quiet Eliot can barely hear him. 

“Is that all—is it okay with you? I just want to be sure.” Eliot musters the most dignity that he can, given the circumstances. Of Quentin suggesting he jerk off facing the nonexistent wall and Eliot dispelling the notion with his very own mutual masturbation fantasy—and Quentin accepting even though it’s not what he wants or what he thinks Eliot wants and—he lets out a long sigh.

“Yes. It’s—it’s all okay. I’m really sorry—”

“Don’t be. It’s a fucked up situation. And we’re both okay with this. It’s a solution for tonight, okay?”

“‘Kay.” He can almost feel Quentin’s pout winding its way between them.

Eliot shimmies out of his underwear, lifting up on the bed, one hand still pressed to Quentin’s body, and tossing them aside. His dick is fully on display, and it’s throbbing with an aching, insistent pulse of need. He tuts and draws the lube over from the bedside table with his magic, the bottle snapping into his hand. He puts it down between them, a visible confirmation of what they’re about to do. _Fuck_.

Quentin is, sort of surprisingly, following suit, slipping his boxers and sleep pants down his hips, wrapping his hand around his dick immediately—and Eliot can hear the immediate soft brushing of skin on skin, feel the movement of Quentin’s tensed body as he speeds up. 

“Oh fuck—that feels _so good_.” 

“God. Oh my God,” Eliot says, completely out of his head, taking his own cock in his hand and running his fingers over it, savoring the thrill gathering and—it’s not _enough_.

“I want you—” Quentin groans like he’s in pain. 

Eliot rumbles, a sound rising up from somewhere beneath his breastbone. When Eliot speaks, after a few loaded seconds, it’s with a tenderness he doesn’t intend. “What do you want, Q?”

He bites down on the urge to call him ‘baby,’ though it’s there waiting on the back of his tongue, sticky-sweet and tingling.

“ _Touch me_ ,” Quentin says, his hand still working on his cock. “You’re not close enough—”

Eliot makes a choked sound, the taste of his own arousal thick and heady on his lips. He’s _already_ touching Q, an arm slung around his shoulder, their chests still pressed together. His other hand is wrapped loosely around his dick, but it’s suddenly imperative to do exactly what Q wants. Be closer, do more. Whatever he needs. “Where—” he manages “—do you want me to touch you?”

“Anywhere— _please._ ”

“Okay.” Eliot takes his hand away from his own dick, which is torturous but—it feels right to touch Quentin, hold him entirely, petting along his arm and down over his ribs, down to the perfect, round ass. He can’t resist squeezing it, and Quentin must like it because he’s moaning, his hand speeding up. He’s making hot little sounds, breathing out against Eliot’s neck. And Eliot scoots in a little closer so that his cock is millimeters away from Quentin’s heated skin. He can feel how blood-flushed it is, how full and heavy his balls are, the little bubble of sensation when a bead of precome forms at his tip. 

“God— _Eliot_ —” Quentin is working over his cock hard and fast, his voice tinged with desperation. 

“Hey, slow down,” Eliot says, soothing. “Take your time.”

“I just need to—I need to—come and I can’t come.” Quentin is breathing fast, panicked, his hand moving rapidly over his dick. “But it’s not—oh God—is my dick broken?”

“Hey. Can I—” This is a dangerous road, Eliot knows. But he’s never been one to skip wild turns, especially if they lead somewhere potentially rewarding. And this is—Jesus fuck—the most rewarding fucking path he’s ever peered down. He’s going to take that path and blow its goddamn mind. “I’m going to help. Stop—and I’ll help—okay? If you’ll let me touch you, it’ll feel really, really good _._ I do have some experience with this type of thing.” Eliot pauses. “Only if you think that’s… a good idea.”

This seems a better thing to say than, ‘I’m a trashy whore. Let me put my hand on your dick.’

In the dark of the room, Quentin stops his frantic stroking and stills. All Eliot can do is wait and breathe and—

“Are you sure you—uh—that you actually want to? This is like, very intimate.”

“Quentin. I think we’re already pretty intimate here.”

“You’re talking about—about—uh—giving me a hand job?” Quentin’s voice sounds a little frantic. He’s all curled into Eliot, still holding his dick like if he lets it go it might fall off, his breath coming fast and hard. Eliot strokes his thumb over the ridge of his hip bone, soothing him, hand resting on his waist. “Like touching my dick?”

“Fifty points to Gryffindor for that astute observation.”

Quentin huffs. “I mean—I’m just getting it straight. In my mind.”

“Hm. Not very straight in my mind. But who doesn’t like to experiment?”

“ _Eliot_.”

“What?”

“You want to?”

Honestly, Eliot’s not sure how many dicks he’s encountered that he _didn’t_ want to touch. A few, to be certain, but not many. Quentin’s dick is at the very top of the list of dicks he very much does want to touch, along with Jonathan Groff’s, Dev Patel’s, and Oscar Isaac’s. Anyone should be honored to be part of that particular list. Honestly, Quentin might be number one on that list, but he’d never admit it.

“Who doesn’t want to help a friend, Q?” Quentin is so warm and close in the dark, and Eliot’s cock is throbbing hot, jerking as he moves his hand over the slope of Quentin’s shoulder.

“Um. Yeah?” Quentin’s voice is slow and dazed, like he’s speaking to Eliot through syrup. “I mean, if it’s not, uh. Too much trouble.”

God. This boy. “We’re here, aren’t we? Might as well put my talents to use.” He runs a fingertip over the ridge of Quentin’s ear, which earns him a sharp intake of breath, a shiver rolling down Quentin’s body.

“Yeah, okay. You can—I mean. If you want to.” Quentin lets the hand that was holding his dick fall to his side and sort of pushes into Eliot, thighs pressed against his, the air between their bodies humid, filled with them.

Closer now, the thrumming pulse of the magic winds its way between them, and it feels like—tying, binding, a gathering together of all the magic inside them. It’s an odd sensation—yeah, he’s turned on, maddeningly so, but there’s something more, something akin to the feeling he gets when he uses his magic to build something or make something grow. Like vines, twisting and creating a new home around them, the bones of it old and dark and yet—bursting with new life, possibility blooming around them in the light of the waxing moon.

It has to do with the curse, but Eliot knows that, for him, there’s the thread of something else, glinting at his center, tugged and stretched and deepened by the bond. He moves his hand back down to Quentin’s waist, brushing his thumb over the jut of his hip, watching as Quentin’s abdomen tenses, then releases, moving his fingers lower, tracing down the V that leads to Quentin’s cock. It’s a lovely cock, from what he can see in the silvery light—not over long but thick and fat at the base, wet across the slit and around the head. Quentin flinches when Eliot brushes against a sensitive spot, an inch or so from his dick. 

“El—hnnnn— _please_.” 

Eliot hums and sweeps his hand up and along Quentin’s ribs, tracing through each of the notches, savoring the lazy motion and the heat of magic beneath his fingers. Quentin is rocking his hips now, trying to get Eliot to touch his dick, pressing into his leg, and oh _fuck_ , his cock aches. But he can be patient, now that he has what he wants, what the bond wants and—those are the same things, really. It feels so good to touch and know Quentin wants it, needs it now, more than anything. “Please what?”

“Eliot—I swear to fucking God—if you don’t touch my dick—”

“What are you gonna do if I don’t? Hm?” He slides his hand down Quentin’s chest and down to his full, muscular thigh, giving it a squeeze, noting the low almost-whimper that escapes Quentin’s lips. “Gonna kick me out of my bed?”

“But—please—I’m—I really need—”

“Listen, I said I know what I’m doing.” Eliot feels like he’s taken another solid hit of magic ecstasy, but this one was enchanted in someone’s basement lab in a bathtub—so while it may be true that Eliot very much knows what to do with his hand on a dick, he has not a single clue what he’s doing with this curse. He’s pretty sure this is a line they’re stepping up to, and when it’s crossed, there won’t be an opportunity to cross back. 

This feels like escalation, and every warning siren and red flag is going off in Eliot’s head—but he’s never paid any of those signals too much attention. With Quentin quivering in his arms, his breath hitching when Eliot runs his fingers over the expanse of his throat, gasping when Eliot thumbs one nipple, it’s easy to push away the creeping feeling that once they start down this path, there won’t be any turning around. 

Eliot’s not precisely sure he wants to turn around. He’s been stepping up to this line for a while now, and Quentin needs this; Eliot can take care of him, make him feel so, so good, make him come so hard. And by the full moon, it occurs to him, maybe both of them will want something _else_. 

“You feeling okay?” Eliot can’t help but touch the tip of his finger to the bow of Quentin’s lip, a thrill of excitement rushing up his spine when Quentin’s mouth opens, the pink of his tongue barely visible in the moonlight.

“I guess.” Quentin’s Adam’s apple bobs, a tremor rolling through his body as Eliot pushes him onto his back and tugs Quentin’s sleep pants the rest of the way down and tosses them to the floor.

“Hey—I was going to sleep with those on—”

“No need to be shy, Q.”

“I wasn’t—I’m not _being shy_. I don’t need to sleep with my dick out in your bed.” 

“You already have your dick out in my bed. Putting it back later doesn’t change anything.”

“But—”

“I’ll give them back, okay?”

“ _Fine_.” Quentin’s chest is rising and falling rapidly, his cock silhouetted in the low light; hard and dripping and curved toward his belly.

“Fine then,” Eliot says.

Eliot pets over Quentin’s chest, bending to flick his tongue over one nipple, smiling when Quentin’s body arches up beneath his. “You like that?”

“Y-yeah. But you don’t have to—”

“Oh, I know. But I’d like to. I’ve got a theory I want to test.”

“I think you mean it’s a _hypothesis_ , Eliot.”

“Mm, either way,” Eliot says. “Doesn’t matter. I’m going to—mm—” Eliot presses his tongue to Quentin’s nipple again, licking and sucking and dragging his teeth over the crinkled skin. A swirl of pleasure rises in Eliot’s belly, his nipples and cock pulsing as he licks at Quentin, like the pieces of the enchantment are connecting within him, pulling magic from Quentin and mixing it up with his own.

“What—uh—what’s your _theory_ —” Quentin is panting hard, his fingers digging into Eliot’s shoulder. 

“A minor psychic component to the spell. I’ve used an echoing enchantment before where you feel a repeat of your partner’s pleasure. But this is more subtle, kind of an extension of why touching you feels so good—” He thumbs over Quentin’s nipple again and shivers at the curl of sensation rising in his hips, the achy pulse in his thighs. “—it’s the spell. Just.. interesting.”

“Yeah, it’s—um. Interesting,” Quentin says, his voice cracking. His body arches up beneath Eliot’s hands, so responsive, so fucking delightful.

“You ready?”

In the dark, Quentin nods very slightly, breath still coming quick. Eliot sits back on his haunches and brushes his knuckles along the underside of Quentin’s dick, admiring the way it jerks beneath his hand. “Holy fuck—”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Eliot says, watching the rise and fall of his hand on Quentin’s cock. Eliot grabs for the lube and squirts a thick line over it. A shock rolls through him when he takes Quentin’s length in hand, for real, which is—mm—yes, an interesting discovery. It’s just the right size and heft for his fingers—and Eliot’s mouth is actually watering—he needs to focus on the task at hand. At _hand_. 

“Eliot—are you going to—”

“I’m just getting to know you.” Eliot gives Quentin’s cock a squeeze, eliciting a sharp gasp, an involuntary little buck of his hips. When Eliot starts stroking his cock in earnest, slow, twisting his thumb up over the head, Quentin grunts, his whole body quaking. He lets out a high-pitched whine that makes something primal and possessive flicker to life inside Eliot. He’ll make it perfect, make it just _right_ for Quentin. Make it so he only wants Eliot. Eliot’s hands and fingers and mouth and cock—he’s so hard, heavy and straining, precome beading up at his tip.

“That feel good?”

“Yeah, so—nngh—it’s _so_ good,” Quentin mumbles, the last word turning into a moan as Eliot works his cock, echoes of Quentin’s pleasure invading his senses, wisps of psychic magic reaching his core, twirling alongside the excitement and desire, the raw, gut punch of need sitting at the heart of him.

“Feels perfect in my hand,” Eliot says, his head fuzzy and far away. His sole brain cells have focused on Quentin’s cock, blocking everything else from his periphery. “Such a nice cock.” The solid, hot feel of it, the way Quentin gasps when he brushes over the head, the strangled sound he makes when Eliot squeezes tighter and works faster—God, he wants to bury his face between Quentin’s thighs, eat him out until his limbs turn to liquid, watch his cock disappear inside while he holds up those pretty legs and fucks him so hard he won’t be able to go to class the next day. He’ll just have to stay in bed. All day. With Eliot.

When the moonlight falls across Quentin’s face, his expression is shocked, overcome, his mouth falling open, eyes fluttering closed. 

He thinks he’ll have to send Marina a thank you card.

Quentin’s body is tensing beneath Eliot’s hands, his muscles drawn tight as Eliot strokes him, the sound filthy-slick and wet in the darkened room—Eliot wants the lights on next time, wants to spread him apart and see him and—Quentin is shouting Eliot’s name, grabbing his arm, bucking up into his hand, legs and abdomen tensing as his cock pulses in Eliot’s grip and he comes in stripes across his belly. Eliot strokes him through it, an echo of Quentin’s pleasure rising in his hips, his own cock thrumming, thighs aching and tight.

“Oh my _God_ —oh my God—” Quentin is still trembling, his cock _still hard_.

Eliot groans, moving his hand to his own aching dick, gripping Quentin’s thigh. He’s bending forward, his painful-hard dick pressed into Quentin’s body, next to his still firm cock, slicked up with lube and come, and before Eliot can even think or question or pause, he’s kissing Quentin, hungry and filthy, and Quentin’s tongue is pressed hot against his.

One of them is moaning, and Eliot is very gently rocking against Quentin’s dick, warmth sparking through his hips—and Quentin’s hands are on his ass, squeezing and kneading the flesh as he bucks up beneath Eliot, moaning—yeah, it’s both of them making lewd sounds and Eliot’s not sure if his soundproofing wards are actually up, but he doesn’t give a fuck—they’re both frantic and rutting aimlessly. Quentin’s tongue is in his mouth—hot, soft velvet, and his cock is firm, skin petal-soft—God, his nice, thick cock—it’s so fucking lovely, and Eliot wants to stick around to get a good look at it in the sunlight.

Right now, all he wants is to press all of himself against all of Quentin, slide his dick along the soft scratch of his body hair and the slick hot hard skin of his cock, seeking friction and drag, an approximation of what it might feel like inside his mouth or his ass—Eliot moans, bucking hard, gripping Quentin’s shoulders to get leverage, the magic glued inside him reaching out to Quentin, seeking out the answering threads of the bond and weaving themselves tighter and tighter together as Eliot, mindless and panting into Quentin’s mouth, reaches down and slips his hand around both their cocks.

After that, things happen rapidly: Quentin howls like he’s been hit in the gut, Eliot plants his knees, driving into his hand and gripping tight, fucking into his fist, slipping against Quentin’s dick, and Quentin writhes beneath him, nearly sobbing. Eliot doesn’t stop because—he _can’t_ —and it takes every ounce of concentration inside him to even slow down, but he has to, he wants to, he can’t hurt Quentin, even though the curse is pulling him in, begging for relief, the whole of his sensation and drive focused on getting off.

“You—you okay?” Eliot’s voice is rough. “I’ll stop if—if you need me to.”

“God, _no_ —don’t stop—I think I’m— _God_ —I’m think I’m—holy fuck—going to come again. Eliot, oh my God, why does that feel so good?” Quentin mindlessly bucks up into his hand, sliding against his cock, sending waves of heat through his thighs and hips, his balls drawn up tight and aching. “Holy shit, keep going, oh my God, just keep going—”

“Okay, baby, I will.” Eliot moans, kissing Quentin with a bruising force and rutting forward so hard that the bed shakes beneath him. “I’m close, fuck I’m so—”

It’s wet and hot and insane, this thing inside him, echoes of Quentin’s own pleasure rioting through him as he rolls his hips and rocks against Quentin’s dick. He can’t think, can barely breathe, the whole of him poured into the single space of his hand, Quentin whimpering and writhing beneath him.

“What the—what the _fuck_ —” Quentin shouts and all at once, his body seizes beneath Eliot, and he comes again, cock jumping in Eliot’s hand and spilling between them, hot and slick and—oh _fuck_ , he smells so _good_. 

Eliot cries out, his teeth scraping over Quentin’s shoulder, biting down and sobbing at the almost painful, rippling wave of primal release pounding through him, balls drawn up heavy and tight, hips stuttering between Quentin’s legs. His orgasm hits him like a shot, spooling up in his thighs and pulsing through his hips, as he ruts forward, lifting up on one hand to see Quentin’s face, shocked and flushed and broken open, and comes, his eyes on Quentin’s swollen lips as he fucks into his hand and spurts over his chest. His mind goes blank for the space of several seconds as he holds himself suspended above Quentin, their legs still pressed firmly together—Quentin’s gaze is locked with his, and he’s panting and he’s lifting up and—

Eliot’s not stupid, and Quentin radiates with a soft energy that says he needs to be kissed, so Eliot does, falling against him and—not wholly ungracefully—dragging him into an embrace, their bodies sticky and messy and pressed tight together. Quentin whines into his mouth, gripping at Eliot’s curls and biting his lower lip, which—holy fuck—he doesn’t _think_ he could get hard again after _that_ , whatever the fuck _that_ was, but his cock is definitely at least thinking about trying. 

He’s panting when he pulls back from Quentin, his nerves tingling with the release of something he didn’t know he was carrying, of a week of buildup to this moment—longer, more than that, back to the day he met Quentin and thought, _I’m going to fuck that cute little nerd._

And Quentin is—kissing him back for real, on and on, which is something he didn’t think would ever happen, especially not after the fucking failed date—and it had been, Margo pointed out to him no fewer than five times, a really fucking dumb idea for a date—where Quentin waxed poetic about Julia for the entire walk back to the portal and then—well, everything after that.

Anyway, he guesses the date could be called a success, if success means being permanently tied to his crush unless he wants both of them to die. 

Eliot falls back against the mattress and does a quick cleaning spell, one-handed. His other arm is beneath Quentin’s head still, and Quentin is yawning, and Eliot is probably never going to get his arm back, or his bed, or his life, for that matter. He can’t find the strength to care.

“Hey, Q.”

Quentin pushes out a huff. “What?”

“Are you straight?”

“Oh my _God_. Of all the things to discuss here—”

“Honest question.”

“No. Goodnight, Eliot.”

Eliot turns that over in his mind for a bit, wondering exactly what he’d done wrong. “Well—I feel like we can make the best of a somewhat difficult situation here.”

A silence sits between them and that silence is loaded with—something. Eliot’s not sure what. He waits.

After a few beats, Quentin lets out a long sigh. “Fine. Just. I need to get some sleep. I have healing tomorrow morning early. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Eliot drifts off to sleep with Quentin’s head on his shoulder. When he wakes, Quentin is getting dressed in his clothes from the night before, his eyes darting away when Eliot pushes up on one elbow and looks at him. He looks too fucking cute with his messed up hair and his baggy pajama pants, his fucking Fillory t-shirt. Musn’t be caught pantsless in the hallway. _Mmm_. He picks up his bag and slings it over his shoulder.

“See you tonight,” Eliot says.

Quentin gives him a little wave and books it for the door.

Eliot lights a cigarette and, blowing smoke circles up toward the ceiling, thinks about the full moon. 


	2. you should see the things we do, baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo raises an eyebrow, a smirk lighting up her features. “So you don’t like getting railed? Interesting. I know Eliot can work with that—”
> 
> “Oh my God. We haven’t—”
> 
> “You haven’t been fucking? Was Eliot referring to someone else as a good boy when he was—” Margo makes a jerking off motion with her hand.
> 
> Quentin tucks a piece of hair behind one ear. “Oh, um. No, that. Was. I mean, I don’t need to share this with you—”
> 
> “Seems like you already are.” She kicks his calf with her tiny foot. “I bet you’re dying to tell someone about finally getting in bed with your crush, brag about his giant cock. Am I right?”
> 
> “I mean.” Quentin looks up at the ceiling. She’s definitely got the gist of some of Quentin’s thinking on the subject of Eliot. “I mean. We haven’t. We’ve—fooled around—some. We just haven’t. I mean, I’ve never.”
> 
> “Oh, baby. You’re a virgin. I understand—”
> 
> “I’m not a virgin.”
> 
> “You literally just told me you’re an actual virgin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so so much to Rubick for her beta reading and AmbiguousPenny for their cheerreading. 
> 
> I had intended this chapter to include the full moon secks, but pre-full moon shenanigans got a little out of hand. There's a natural split here, and believe me, you'll be getting more of these two idiots. External forces will be the thing encroaching while they both actually figure themselves out for once. I have a whole other WIP I'll be posting soon. Idk how I got myself into this. 
> 
> Comments are deeply appreciated. <3<3<3

Quentin is sitting pressed up against the wall of the reading nook in the Cottage. It’s where he usually sits at the end of his day, soaking up the sunlight filtering in the window, reading and rereading his healing textbook, practicing new tuts, shaking out his hands, and trying again. 

So, it’s like a fully normal day. Completely normal. Like, normal as fuck for a Wednesday.

The only difference is that he can’t stop thinking about Eliot’s dick. Which is not, in and of itself, entirely unusual. Eliot’s dick has actually been on his mind since Eliot told him he was late and guided him to his exam, all bouncy curls and seven and a half miles of leg. It’s just that the circumstances around Eliot’s dick have tilted Quentin’s world entirely on it’s side, beating the confines of his brain and emptying out its contents until all that’s left is Eliot’s enormous cock.

 _Fuck_ , it’s _so big_.

Quentin knows enough about anatomy to understand that dicks aren’t necessarily proportional to, like, the rest of the body. Not all the time, anyway. After he hooked up with a super tall, big guy in undergrad who had a smaller—well, it was on the smaller side of average, he’d say—dick than he’d expected, Quentin actually read several studies to that effect. Dick size doesn’t correlate with height, weight—any of that. But—

But Eliot’s dick is absolutely proportional to the rest of his body. It’s fucking big. And just like the rest of Eliot, it’s _beautiful_.

It correlates to his fucking—long legs and his broad chest and his fucking lovely, elegant, broad hands. Quentin’s never been a size queen—unless you count dildos, and Quentin’s really not counting his sizable red swirled tie dye dick with the really, truly incredible suction cup—but he’s thinking about Eliot’s dick, which is attached to Eliot. And yeah, he’s never really cared—in his extremely limited experience—about the size of the dick involved. But Eliot’s cock is—it’s huge. Long and thick and God, it’s a phenomenon in its own right. Quentin’s watched Eliot jerk off like four times now—Eliot smirking at him and groaning for dramatic effect—and yeah, Eliot’s been fucking _amused_ , because Quentin is completely— _mesmerized_ by the foreskin rolling back and forth, swallowing the red-flushed head, an erotic perpetual motion machine. All for Quentin.

Last night, he almost lost his fucking mind when he touched it for the first time—it’d taken him a _while_ in all of this fucked up mess to actually to ask to _touch it_ —and Eliot had given him that wolffish grin, ear to ear— _Sure, baby. It’s impressive, huh?_ Quentin had wrapped his hand around the base, trailed his fingers over the superheated skin, accepting Eliot’s soft, breathy moan like a benediction, a balm for his hungry, aching soul. Everything went fuzzy and hazy and hot in his brain, his rational mind tipping to the side and crashing out as he stroked Eliot’s dick, the whole of his brain and body and soul focused on that beautiful cock, his mouth watering and his own dick pulsing needily, leaking at the tip, little zings running up his own shaft as the bond echoed on inside of him.

It would be one thing if Eliot was just hot. He is absolutely that, like holy fucking shit, he’s so goddamn—he’s everything. Sexy and graceful, at once masculine and ethereal, wielding his beauty like a blade. If he were just those things, just the physical presence of mind-blowing hotness, Quentin might be able to walk away from this unscathed. But Eliot is not just hot. 

He’s so much _more_. In every way. Just _more_.

Last night, he had held Quentin tight against his broad chest as he grasped Eliot’s cock and—Quentin had just played with it for a while, pressing his thumb to the head, squeezing the base and—brushing the back of his hand along the underside. Eliot had talked to him the whole time, a string of erotic filth tumbling from his mouth. 

It had started with, “No, pretty boy, I’m not letting you turn off the light. I wanna watch those fingers slide over my cock.” Continuing with, “God, yeah, just like that—such nice hands, look so so good on my dick.” And Quentin had almost come himself, throbbing and leaking, untouched— “What a sweet boy you are, gonna make me come _so hard_. Just like that, darling.” 

Quentin’s whole nervous system lit up, his mind sparking at the edges with the sound of _sweet boy_ on Eliot’s lips. 

After Eliot came—the reflection of Eliot’s orgasm rolling through Quentin’s hips, his cock so stiff it throbbed with a sunburnt ache—he had plastered his slippery, sweaty, sticky body to Quentin’s, jerking him off inside of thirty seconds, whispering in his ear, telling Quentin to come for him, dropping ‘baby’ and ‘sweetheart’ like petals pulled from a flower, tossed carelessly to the ground—and Quentin painted his own belly and chest with come, his body light and drifting—like fresh snowfall, he’d thought—digging his toes into the covers while Eliot told him he was sweet and good—

Quentin got it before, why there were always boys lined up by Eliot’s bar, one or two hanging off of him and sitting on his lap at parties. Like why would you not touch Eliot if you could? He’s like a—dryad or a fairy king, ephemeral and sun catcher-bright, mercurial and regal. A creature apart. 

But now, Quentin really, really gets it. Yeah, the curse makes Eliot’s own pleasure pound through Quentin like the bass line on one of Taylor Swift’s poppy, sexy songs—a hidden thrum that kicks in and makes everything _more_. But the melody is all Eliot: sensual power and reckless beauty all wrapped in raw silk and velvet. A tapestry of decadence; Quentin’s very own wet dream.

He hates himself for secretly hoping that the curse won’t break. Hoping that Eliot can never get rid of him. That he’ll have to keep Quentin in his bed forever, using him every night like a—God, Quentin is such a huge pervert—like an android sex doll, getting Eliot off for eternity. And Quentin imagines—it’s not realistic, but he imagines—Eliot never touching anyone else. That all he wants is Quentin, only Quentin. Because Quentin is special, and he’s good for Eliot, and he’s the one who’s bonded to him.

Yeah, he’s fucked up. He’s completely fucked in the head over this. And if it weren’t for the oversupply of dopamine rushing through his brain just _thinking_ about his next night with Eliot, the next touch, the next _escalation_ , he’d probably be huddled in a corner, rocking back and forth, likely kicked out of Brakebills, memory-wiped and dying on a street corner alone in the cold—

“I _said_ , hey puppy—full moon day after tomorrow. You boys using protection?” Margo sits down across from him and pushes her feet between his so that they’re sitting together like puzzle pieces. “We don’t need any secret moon babies.”

Quentin feels his mouth go slack, his scalp prickling with the first vestiges of panic. “Um. I—what are you talking about?” 

“Mpreg. We don’t really know what that spell does, do we? Could do _anything_ when the full moon rolls around. I read about that in the _Fillory Encyclopedia of Faerie Lore_.” Margo shrugs. “You never know.”

“That’s—that’s—it’s um. Plover didn’t write that himself. That was an unabridged edition from the, uh, writer who did the—those copycat books.” 

“ _Marilee and More_?” Margo’s nose crinkles up. “Total ripoff. Atrocious title. But the encyclopedia… that seems pretty legit. Says pregnancy can occur with certain spells tied to the moon. So don’t let him knock you up, okay? You’re still a _child_. You can’t support a kid. And don’t get me started on Eliot.”

“I’m—I’m.” Quentin clears his throat and puts his cool fingertips to his face, trying to will the blood from pooling in his cheeks. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Margo.”

“Don’t be coy with me. Unlike you two boneheads, I actually read up on this thing. So I know what the curse wants, so I know you’re fucking—”

“We’re not—that’s not—”

“—and even if I hadn’t read up on it, Eliot forgot to put up his silencing wards three nights ago.” She leans in closer to Quentin and puts a hand on his knee. Her nails are painted a pale purple, and she drums them against his knee. “Quentin, I hear you’re a _very good boy_.”

“Fuck. Jesus Christ.” His heart snaps in his chest, bouncing like a fucking rubber band. “Did it say—” He lowers his voice, looking around the common room and finding it empty of anyone except for Todd, who—seems to be cosplaying Eliot today and standing behind his bar. “—did your research say I could—get _pregnant_?”

“ _No_ , dumbass. This spell can’t get you fucking pregnant.” Margo cackles. “You are too fucking easy, Coldwater.”

“Jesus, Margo.”

“I’ll just have to mention Eliot knocking you up anytime I need a good laugh. Fucking _noted_.”

“And why would I be the one to get pregnant, anyway?” He shivers. God, the thought of that, of _Eliot_ coming inside him and—nope, he’s not going to think that. Not at all. Ever. Never. Why is he thinking about it? What the _fuck_?

Margo raises an eyebrow, a smirk lighting up her features. “So you don’t like getting railed? Interesting. I know Eliot can work with that—”

“Oh my _God_. We haven’t—”

“You haven’t been fucking? Was Eliot referring to someone else as a _good boy_ when he was—” Margo makes a jerking off motion with her hand.

Quentin tucks a piece of hair behind one ear. “Oh, um. No, that. Was. I mean, I don’t need to share this with you—”

“Seems like you already are.” She kicks his calf with her tiny foot. “I bet you’re dying to tell someone about finally getting in bed with your crush, brag about his giant cock. Am I right?”

“I mean.” Quentin looks up at the ceiling. She’s definitely got the gist of some of Quentin’s thinking on the subject of Eliot. “I mean. We haven’t. We’ve—fooled around—some. We just haven’t. I mean, I’ve never.”

“Oh, baby. You’re a _virgin_. I understand—”

“I’m _not_ a virgin.”

“You literally just told me you’re an actual virgin.”

“Margo,” he says, desperate, “someone’s going to hear you. And I’m not—”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine, I won’t call you a virgin. I take it you’ve fucked a girl—”

“Yes,” Quentin hisses, cutting his eyes over to Todd, who is—is that Eliot’s _vest_? 

“—but you’ve never had a dick in you.”

Quentin shrugs and crosses his arms over his chest. He pulls his knees in close, like if he makes himself smaller, he’ll get away from Margo and the force of her questioning. “I mean. I’ve—messed around with a couple of guys.”

She gives him a very pretty, very dangerous-looking smile, laughing a little. “Eliot thought you were straight. He’s such a cock.”

“That—that didn’t escape my attention,” Quentin says. He presses his cheek to his knee, wishing he could sink into the fabric. “He. Um. He asked me if I am, um, straight, though. After we—the first time. Why are we— _why_ are we talking about this?”

“It’s the most interesting thing going on around here. Alice is in class. So.”

“Alice?” Quentin’s brows quirk together.

Margo looks at him like he’s the biggest disaster-idiot in the universe. Which he is. Really. But he still doesn’t get it. Why is she talking about Alice? 

“Yeah, Alice. Big tits, babydoll dresses, lots of _lace_.” Margo looks wistful for a moment. “Anyway. Like I said. It’s mostly for my amusement—but. You should read up on these curses.”

“I looked at stuff about bonding curses. They all sound—kind of tame. Not like _this_. This is. Not tame. It’s—” He leans forward, his heart pounding. He thinks of Eliot’s lips on his, the simmer beneath his skin when he climbs into bed at night. He hasn’t even bothered to put on clothes the last few nights because—Eliot gets his hands on Quentin, and they get off, and they fall asleep in a naked, sweaty tangle. And the past two nights, he’s awakened before dawn to the feel of Eliot’s hands running over his body again, a little whisper of _I need to get off again_ — _fuck I’m so hard_ , followed by the insistent _sh-sh-sh_ of Eliot jerking off, the low rumble of him groaning and saying Quentin’s name. He’d come all over Quentin’s back the night before last, pushing him down into the mattress while he rutted against the meat of his ass—and last night, it had been all over his chest—and Quentin had come at almost the same moment, the evidence of their bond made manifest. All the fuck over him. “Really kind of _intense_. Like—I’ve never felt anything like this. I don’t know—like where do we go from here? If—if there’s no—cure, or whatever.” 

“Dunno, baby. I _do_ know you’re looking at the wrong information. You need to look at moon-bound curses. Marina was a knowledge kid when she was here—they love that moon shit. Makes the Circumstances extra complex, harder to break. And it’s going to be at its peak two nights from now. And it’ll be extra fucking unpleasant if you don’t give it what it wants.”

“What does it _want_?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Q. What does it seem like it wants, _sweet boy_?”

Quentin sinks down lower into the window seat. “Jesus. He didn’t have the wards up last night either?”

Margo laughs—and keeps laughing, clearly delighted. “Oh, God. That was—” A new wave of laughter hits her, and she pats at her eyes, wiping away tears.

“What, Margo? What the _fuck_?”

“That one was just a _guess_. But it’s directly from the Eliot Waugh playbook. He’s rolling out the red carpet for you, pet names and everything.”

Quentin groans, trying to cover up the angry, writhing, jealous thing at his center. He feels like stabbing something when he thinks about Eliot calling anyone else his ‘sweet boy.’ _Fuck_ , he’s the one who needs to be good for Eliot, needs to show him how _good_ and _sweet_ he can be. 

The magic pulses in him at the thought of Eliot with anyone else, surging up beneath his breastbone, possessive and needy. Eliot is so fucking pretty and— _fuck_ —Quentin should be the only one who gets him at night, every night, puts his hands all over him, tastes his skin and his come and kisses his hot, eager mouth. A wave of nausea hits him when he remembers that guy who Eliot took up to his room last week. _Fuck_. Is Eliot still _doing that_?

“He uses that with—with other guys?”

“Mm. Mmhmm,” Margo says. “You okay there, Q? You look a little pale.”

“I’m just—processing. It’s a lot to process.” He swallows a few times, like he’s trying to dispel the whole fact of Eliot-and-other-guys that very definitely exists and that he very _definitely_ doesn’t want to think about right now. Did he feel this way before the bond? He knows he didn’t exactly like it when he saw Eliot with anyone else. But it wasn’t quite like this. And he certainly wasn’t having complicated feelings about Eliot knocking him up. And—oh, _God_. The full moon. 

“What’s a lot to process, honey?” Margo pats his knee, and it’s like a facsimile of being comforting—not quite all the way there, but a good effort nonetheless.

“Just.” He pulls his sleeves down over his hands and balls up his fists. “I’m getting a—a clear image of what the curse wants.”

“Oh yeah. It definitely wants you and Eliot to fuck. Might as well enjoy the ride. It’s a goddamn good ride. I’ve seen it in action.” 

“But Eliot—Eliot doesn’t want that. Does he?” Quentin knits his brows and tries to remember what they were like before the curse. What happened leading up to it. He had a crush on Eliot right away, and Eliot flirted. Copiously. He did the whole extremely copious flirting thing, and he ran off with another boy—a boy who wasn’t Quentin—at the end of each Cottage party. He didn’t go beyond flirting with Quentin. “I mean. He doesn’t like me _like that_.”

Margo levels him with a gaze that really doubles down on the whole him-being-an-idiot thing. “Quentin. Don’t tell me you’re as stupid as Eliot is.”

“I’m—I’m—this is just _all_ very confusing, Margo.” He takes a long, shaky breath. “Eliot is very confusing.”

“Could I interest either of you in a gin and tonic?” Todd appears with a tray of random glasses, each of them filled with something that looks very much not like gin or tonic. 

“Fuck off, Todd,” Margo says. 

“I’ll. Yeah.” He takes a drink absently and swallows some of it down, immediately spitting it out as soon as Todd turns and traipses back to the bar. “What the fuck is in this?”

“Beats me. I don’t know how he can fuck up a gin and tonic, but he does it _every time_. He has a real talent for fucking things up.” Margo pauses and fixes Quentin in her sights, her look turning from annoyed to deadly. 

“Um.” Quentin swallows. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

She leans forward and pats his cheek. “Don’t follow in his footsteps.”

Quentin is quiet for a few moments, trying to look for all the world like he’s actually absorbing what Margo is saying. He’s definitely _not_ doing that. Because Margo is confusing the shit out of him. “Whose footsteps am I not following in?”

“Todd’s, you moron. Don’t fuck this up.”

“Fuck what up?” Quentin looks around to see if there’s evidence of him fucking up somewhere, somehow, behind him, anywhere around him. What had he fucked up? What was he _going_ to fuck up? Usually he was the last one to know when he’d fucked something up, so he hopes Margo just fucking _tells him_. “Margo, just fucking tell me.”

“My emotional support himbo really, actually likes you.”

“I mean, we’re friends,” Quentin ventures. But something twists in his gut, a little burble of instinct that tells him _that’s not what she’s talking about._

Margo glares at him. “I get that you’re socially maladjusted—”

“Jesus Christ, Margo. I’m right here.”

“—but you’re not _that_ dense. Yeah, I can see you, Coldwater. Let me be clear. Eliot likes you. A lot. He’s been dreaming of that dick since before your exam. I get it. You’re cute in, like, a late 90s _Tiger Beat_ meets Michael J. Fox—but like with longer hair—and playing a debate team captain on the road to finals.”

“... I have no idea what that means.”

“Anyway, he wants to suck your brain directly out of your dick. And take you out to dinner. You’re a rare breed, Q. Lock it down, and take advantage of that sex magic shit.”

Quentin grabs his collar and tugs at it, his top button coming undone. Sweat is pouring down the back of his neck. “Is it hot—do you feel hot in here?” He pulls his sweater up over his head, getting it stuck and struggling with it before he pulls it off. Margo is watching him. Like a hawk watching a lost baby squirrel.

“Listen,” Margo says, “Eliot is an emotional bitch.”

Quentin nods, like he’s actually comprehending this information and isn’t about to explode into a trillion photons of pure energy. 

“And he has a thing for you. Now, I don’t know what that thing is. But I know he was too nervous to pull you up to his room after a party. And then he took you like actually _out_. On a—magician adventure. Or whatever it was. It was Eliot’s version of a date. He’s not as smooth as he makes himself out to be.”

“But he seems—”

“No, you be a _good boy_ and listen to me. He has _no idea_ what to do with a boy he actually likes. He can put on the charm and bring out the glitz for some random cock. But he gets all fluttery and silly around you. Which.” She looks Quentin over. “Jury’s out on whether I approve. So, be nice and—”

“There is literally an actual curse on us, Margo. How—how do you expect me to—to do whatever with Eliot when there’s a curse that makes us want to fuck—” Quentin’s breathing is coming hard and fast and all he can think is that the full moon is in two nights and he’s atrociously inexperienced and if he’s horrible in bed, then Eliot will _stop_ liking him. “—what do I—even do? Do I ask him to like—go steady? Give him my fucking—class ring—what the fuck, Margo? Why did you tell me this?”

“Do with this information what you will. Just don’t hurt Eliot.”

“God. Margo. I wouldn’t. Not intentionally.”

“Don’t do it unintentionally, either.”

“How do I know if—”

“Just don’t be a fuck up, Q. Or I will find you and I will fucking—”

“Who’s fucking up?” A warm hand slips over his shoulder, the faintest hint of bare skin against his, and a wave of heated bliss ripples out from the touch. Even if he hadn’t spoken—that rich, melodic voice—Quentin would have known it was him. The tingle rolling down his spine, spreading out through his bones, to the tips of his fingers. Eliot lifts his hand and it feels like— _loss_ , like a piece of him was plucked out. 

Since this all started, Eliot hasn’t touched him during the day, never after sunrise, and it feels—not quite as brutally arousing, but tingling and bright, like the sun hitting his skin after a dreary week of rain. He steels himself, keeps looking at Margo, so he doesn’t turn and pull Eliot’s hand back to his body.

“Quentin,” Margo starts. “Hmm. Quentin said he was going to totally cock up his healing exam. So I told him not to be a fuck up like Todd.”

“Certainly true. We can’t have Q getting poor grades. I suppose I can help you with your exam if you need it.” Eliot’s fingers brush the back of Quentin’s neck again, and every hair on his body stands on end. “Another study session.”

“El,” he says, his cheeks going bright red. Quentin curls in on himself, like he’s hiding from the sensation, but Eliot, kneads his fingers into the back of Quentin’s scalp, and a low moan escapes his lips. 

“That’s nice, huh?” Eliot makes a pleased sound, a low hum, and tucks his fingers into Quentin’s collar. Quentin’s nervous system ignites like the fairy lights strewn around Margo’s room. That’s what it feels like—a soft, twinkling glow, bathing his body in warm light. He melts into Eliot’s hand, pushing back against it as he traces circles around the wisps of hair at his nape. “Didn’t know it would feel like that during the day, hm. Feels like my whole arm is getting a massage. You’re a day at the spa, Q. Biggest compliment of all time.”

“Sweet Jesus’ tits,” Margo says, kicking Quentin’s leg again. Quentin jolts, opening his eyes to see Margo gaping at him, but he can’t muster the strength to care, given that Eliot’s hand is actively massaging his scalp, and he feels like he’s made of whipped cream and sugar flowers. Margo looks all blurry at the edges, like she was filmed through a lens covered with Vaseline. “Is that what it’s like? Quentin looks like he’s smoked a whole ass pint of opium.”

“Bambi,” Eliot says, his voice almost _reverent_. “It’s even better than this. You can’t imagine. Best sleep I’ve ever had.”

“Oh my God,” Quentin says, his entire body going hot. Eliot can’t be sleeping well because—he’s—he’s jerking Quentin off half the night. As much as he wants to, he can’t pull himself away from Eliot’s hand, fully nuzzling into it, his mind filled with images of Eliot’s skin, his curls, the soft, press of his lips, his lopsided smirk when he makes Quentin come. “Oh my _God_ —please just. Stop talking about it.”

“It’s just Bambi. We’re all friends here. She knows we’re—” Eliot pauses for a beat. “—holding hands at night. That it’s very relaxing.”

“Yeah?” Margo deadpans. “We’re going with that line still? Okay. You’re both a total entertainment. I don’t even need my HBO subscription. I’m fucking canceling it.”

“What on earth are you on about, Bambi?” Eliot is still kneading his fingers into Quentin’s skull, the edge of his hip pressed to Quentin’s shoulder. And Quentin _knows_ that hip now, the graceful lines of it, the deep V that leads to his gorgeous cock. 

“Oh, nothing,” Margo says.

“Hm, okay. Well, I have to actually go to class. Oral exam today in herbology.” 

“You keep calling it herbology,” Margo says. “Like your Neville fucking Longbottom. It’s _botany_.”

“Herbology just _sounds better_. Botany sounds like a boring science elective,” Eliot says, still petting Quentin’s hair and sending obscene shockwaves directly to his dick. It’s about 3:30 now, and there’s four hours til sunset—he’ll be able to go into Eliot’s room right after that, and Quentin—Quentin’s going to ask to suck his dick. He’s decided. He’s going to do that. He _has to_ , he physically _has to_ get Eliot’s dick in his mouth. The sooner, the better. His mouth waters at the thought. “Don’t you think it sounds better, Q?”

“Mmph,” Quentin replies, his head lolling to the side. 

“Well, I’ll see you two later,” Eliot says. As soon as he removes his hand, Quentin sits up like he’s been slapped awake, a bucket of ice water dumped over his head.

He’s panting by the time Eliot leaves, tamping down the impulse to run after him. Sweat pools in his armpits, his heart rate picking up and pattering in his ears.

“Merciful dickbags, Quentin. You are truly _fucked_. Didn’t know it was that bad.” She leans forward and pushes his hair out of his eyes. He might have jolted at her touch before—she is, after all, terrifyingly hot—but his body feels oddly numb, dulled to sensation.

“S’worse at night. A lot worse.”

“Jesus. Mmm, well. The moon is a wily cunt, always making shit worse. Periods, tides, werewolves.”

“Uh—werewolves?”

Margo ignores him. “Read up on moon-bound curses, particularly bonding enchantments. Marina must have done some whack-ass meta-comp shit to pull this one together.”

“Okay,” he says, feeling very small and helpless. It would be better if he didn’t know that Eliot _likes_ him. Whatever the fuck that means. He doesn’t have a great read on human emotions on the best of days, and the curse—well that makes things infinitely more complicated. _Fuck_. The only thing that he knows is that Eliot’s dick exists, and he wants it. 

“Pro tip, Q. If you hold your thumb inside your fist, it helps loosen up that gag reflex.”

Quentin thinks he ought to be polite, but he _really_ wants to tell Margo she’s not helping. He’s going to have to like, walk around and function for the next six to seven hours, and it’s going to be difficult with even _more_ of Eliot’s dick in his brain. “Um. Thanks?” 

“No problem,” Margo says. “ _Oh_. You know what? There’s a spell for that, too. Ask Eliot.”

“A spell for what, exactly?” 

“Gag reflex,” Margo says, like _lol of course_ , _keep up, you dullard._

“Yeah. I’ll… get right on that.” 

Margo pats him on the shoulder. “Glad we could have this chat. Mark my word, though.” Margo hops off the window seat and bends down, just several inches from Quentin’s face. “I will actually end you if you fuck this up.”

“How—what—I mean. It would be helpful if you gave me, like, specific instructions. I certainly don’t—I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m doing.” 

Margo shrugs. “Just treat him like the king that he is. Got it?”

“Sure,” Quentin says weakly. “That clears things right up.”

The door to the Cottage opens, and Alice walks in, waving a little stiffly in their direction. He’d thought he might like her, like _romantically_ , at one point, but when he looks at her now, it’s like that thought has been fully excised from his psyche, like it was never there at all. In recent days, he can’t even muster up the sensation of wanting Julia. 

The Julia memories are all there, intact—lying beneath their Fillory table and thinking of nothing but kissing her, fingers buried in her hair—and sadly jerking off about it later—the jealousy he felt when she started dating James, and the ensuing realization that he wanted _both_ of them and could have neither— He can’t draw up any of the desire, the visceral need to hold and be held; the yearning that had once consumed entirely him has vanished.

He’s like that meme—no thoughts; brain empty. Except his brain is actually filled with Eliot’s dick.

Quentin immediately drops out of Margo’s line of attention when Alice smiles in their direction. “Seeya, puppy.”

“Uh—Margo,” he says desperately. “I need help—I need to—I need to know what to do here—and the curse—” Quentin does the mental equivalent of flailing, searching wildly for the words he intends to say. Something about how to control the curse, maybe, but that’s not a fully formed thought. Or—is he supposed to tell Eliot that he, like, wants to be his boyfriend? Or sex friend? Or—Quentin’s not really sure. He’s entirely out of his fucking depth.

“Later. I’ve got some work to catch up on with Alice.”

When the two of them saunter upstairs towards Alice’s room, Margo dragging her by the wrist, at least one thing clicks into place. 

_Oh._ Not the pairing he was expecting, but a lot of unexpected things have been happening recently. 

If only a few other things would reveal themselves in a similar fashion, Quentin might survive until the full moon. As it is, nothing comes, and he’s left facing the blank stretch of hours before he can crawl into Eliot’s bed.

~~***~~

Quentin spends the hours between seven and eight in the evening pacing the floor of his room, trying very hard not to think about Eliot. Or Eliot’s hands. Or his lips. Or his curls. Or—especially not—his enormous cock.

The bond started to vibrate under his skin sometime after sundown, a timid susurration at first. Something he could tolerate. He worked for a while, practicing healing tuts and going through his PA notes, perfecting a mending charm that no one else in his class had been able to get yet. It wasn’t a big deal—to learn something small like that—but Quentin took any victory he could get. 

After a certain point, he has no capacity for concentration left, just the increasing hum of the bond, branching out from its origin point beneath his sternum and _pulling_ at him, launching his body upright and making him pace, hands pulling at his hair, until all rational thought is replaced with the repetitive beat of _open the door, open the door, open the door._ The magic knows—because Quentin knows—that Eliot’s room is upstairs, that Eliot is _lounging_ as Eliot does, waiting for Quentin to submit to the enchantment as it calls to him. 

It’s been a solid two weeks since they were cursed, and Eliot has never _once_ come to him. It’s always Quentin, tapping at his door, Quentin crawling in his bed, Quentin asking for Eliot to jerk him off, begging for the next thing and the next. 

He thinks Margo is putting him on about Eliot _liking him_ because he’s never _once_ seen Eliot being _silly_. Unless Margo has a very different definition of that word. And Quentin supposes that could very well be the case. 

He passes the door again, his fingertips tingling. He stands in front of the door, licking his lips. He hasn’t even changed into his pajamas; he’s not planning to. “Fuck, you have to _wait_. Don’t be _stupid_.”

The thing about Eliot is that he holds his cards close to his chest. He might have hinted something to Margo but that doesn’t mean—it doesn’t mean _anything._ So Quentin should wait. He should _definitely_ wait and try not to look too desperate. Even though he’s absolutely desperate. For Eliot’s hands and his mouth and the hot length of his—

Quentin cracks his knuckles and takes a step closer to the door. “Fuck it.”

He takes the steps to the attic two at a time, blood rushing in his ears. He’s got his messenger bag slung over one shoulder, but he doesn’t even know what’s in it. It doesn’t matter—it’s just a prop. Once he’s in the same room with Eliot, he won’t be able to do anything but look at him, think of him, keep up appearances while he reads the same sentence over and over again, sitting on one of Eliot’s velour floor pillows. 

Vibrating with energy, Quentin raps his knuckles against the door and waits, his socked foot tapping beneath him. There’s a bored sigh on the other side of the door. “Come in, Q.”

Stomach jumping and turning, Quentin opens the door to see—well, something he hasn’t yet seen in the whole time he’s been subject to this enchantment. The lights have been dimmed, and Eliot is already in _bed_. And Eliot is—as far as Quentin can tell—already naked. His however many thousand thread count sheet is artfully draped over his hips, revealing the dark trail of hair beneath his navel, the sensual architecture of his flat waist and his jut of his hipbone, pebbled nipples and the soft tangle of hair on his chest that Quentin knows—and there’s no unknowing it—is warm and faintly musky with the singular, masculine scent that belongs only to Eliot.

“You’re, uh—looking, um—” Quentin directs his gaze at the ceiling, as if it might reveal some answer concerning Eliot’s state of undress. It’s not yet 8:30, and Eliot isn’t even wearing a _robe_. There are candles on either side of Eliot’s bed, warm and flickering and bathing Eliot in a warm, golden light. Languid and patrician, he puts Quentin in mind of a disaffected minor lord in a French modernist painting. Quentin wants to stare at him for hours.

“Comfortable?”

“Y-yeah.” His eyes descend to the happy trail leading to—well, the object of Quentin’s constant fantasizing. He yanks his eyes back up to Eliot’s face, which isn’t really any better because—high cheekbones and long, dark lashes, lips curled into a half-smile.

“Just thought I’d get undressed and lie around for a while. Ahead of time, you know. Thought you might be joining me me a little earlier but—”

Quentin swallows hard and puts down his bag, focusing his gaze on the bare wall behind Eliot’s bed. “Yeah. I. Was doing some work.”

He thinks that even if this is, like, a thing for Eliot, he doesn’t need to know that Quentin had been pacing in his room looking at the doorknob like it was the key to an erotic portal of otherworldly delights. Which. It was definitely exactly that. Whatever. He’s here now, so this should be easy because they’ve been doing this for a solid week.

“You need to do any work, Q? Anything I can—” Eliot pauses. When Quentin looks at him, feet still glued to the same spot, Eliot’s gaze is predatory. “—help you with? Anything you’d like to try?”

“ _Try_?” Quentin’s brain, ever helpful, supplies the image of the sex magic book he came across in the library. There were little illustrations, detailing configurations of naked, levitated and magically bound bodies—and Quentin had jerked off about it a few times, and that’s what’s stuck in his head. Doing all those things. With Eliot. He probably _knows_ how to do all that stuff—probably has it memorized.

“Any tuts you need to practice before your exam?”

“Oh, um. No. I’ll just. I’ll get in bed. Too. I guess. I’m tired and.” Eliot scratches at his chest hair and _theatrically_ , or that’s the word Quentin would put on it, drags his hand down his torso, disturbing the sheet so that it’s perilously close to exposing _all_ of Eliot’s anatomy. His considerable, thought-consuming, world-shattering, bond-cursed anatomy. “Uh—uh. I’m done with my work and—full moon’s almost here. Feeling a little weird. Like—”

“Like the other night, hm? I’ve been feeling a little lonely ever since the sun went down.”

“Yeah?” Quentin shifts from one foot to the other, eyes darting all around Eliot’s room. He should tell Eliot—he should—that it’s significantly easier to maintain composure when Eliot is _clothed_. Not that Quentin is great at ignoring things like Eliot’s wrists and his collarbones and the hollow of his long, graceful neck. But it’s easier than this—the expanse of creamy, pale skin and the stippling of dark hair, all the long, lean lines of Eliot. 

“I was gonna.” Quentin stops. He doesn’t know what he was going to do apart from stare at Eliot or frantically look in every direction but Eliot, so he alternates between doing both. 

Eliot’s hair looks extra lush, one curl falling across his forehead. Artfully careless. Obscenely, Quentin wants to put it in his _mouth_.

Heat sparks, fluttering in his core, nestled low in the cradle of his hips. A soft warmth hits his cock, like he’s being _held_ —and he realizes as he watches Eliot that he’s moving his hand beneath the covers. Eliot tips his head back, sighing and very visibly touching himself. Quentin’s knees actually buckle, and he takes an unsteady step toward the bed.

“It just felt right to be in bed and wait for you. Is that okay?” Eliot’s hand rustles beneath the sheet, and he bites his lip. It is exceptionally clear exactly what Eliot is doing. He’s just— _going for it_. Squeezing himself and pushing out a little moan, all while looking directly at Quentin.

“Uh. Yep. That’s. You look—” Quentin takes a shaky breath, eyes glued to the moving sheet. “—good.”

“Yeah? Come over here and tell me how good I look. You’re so far away.” Eliot lets out a little sigh and very obviously strokes himself _once-twice-three_ times—and even if he couldn’t see it, Quentin can _feel it_. Because of Marina’s moon-based fuckery and her weird knowledge kid meta-comp, Quentin can _extra_ feel it. Like actually, literally on his dick, more intense than the day before. And it’s a full two nights before the full moon. Holy _shit_. 

Quentin’s brain shuffles through a string of appropriate responses, mashing them together into a barely intelligible mess as Eliot’s hand speeds up and Quentin’s brain blurs with the fluttery, light sensation running over his cock. “I’m on my—okay, yeah I’m—alright.” 

“Come on, baby. You look so alone over there.” Eliot’s voice is slow and warm, pooling like honey, and Quentin feels himself following it. Eliot, he thinks, is a Venus fly trap; Quentin the hapless bug pulled in by the promise of its scent. Quentin feels like he’s watching himself from above—he’s vaguely aware that he’s kicking off his socks and stripping out of his shirt as he stumbles towards Eliot’s bed and falls back on it and—Eliot’s hand is on his back, sliding over his skin, fingertips pushing against his muscle, lighting up his nerves in the twinned sensations of agony and euphoria.

“Looks like you got a little distracted over there, Q.” Eliot moves in close, kneading his fingers into Quentin’s knotted back. 

Quentin’s whole body jerks, and he pushes into Eliot’s hand, a broken, animal moan rising from his chest. In the past few days, when he gets this close to Eliot after sundown, the pain ticks up in his body, starting low at the base of his spine and twisting up in sick spirals. And when Eliot touches him, that first touch—it’s always torture, his viscera thrown into a coffee grinder—the only point of comfort is Eliot’s hand, and that is warmth and light and relief and quiet in the continuous din of his brain, a light in the abyss. 

“Sshh, I’ve got you.” Eliot scoots closer, wrapping Quentin up in his arms and pressing his hot mouth to Quentin’s shoulder, hand running over Quentin’s ribs, lips brushing light over his neck. “Lie down with me.”

“Oh, uh—okay, yeah.” This is a full deviation from their script. This is _entirely_ out of order, and Quentin had expected to ask Eliot if he could suck his dick, like, while Eliot was still _clothed_. And—that’s not what’s happening, and Eliot is lowering him down on the bed and crowding into his space and _licking_ his neck and moaning like he’s half out of his mind.

Eliot nuzzles into him, brushing his hair aside and sucking at the skin behind his ear. “You taste so fucking good. God, do you have any idea? I’ve been thinking about this all day. I see you and I just want to—” Eliot bites the ridge of his ear, flicking out his tongue. “—get you in bed. Where you _belong_.”

“Oh—” All the tension that had wound him up and sent him pacing seeps out as Eliot breathes against his skin. A primal bliss sinks into his muscles and bones and joints as Eliot takes Quentin in his hands.

Eliot tuts, quick and one-handed—and the electric lights go out, only the candles left on. Eliot has the curtain pulled back on his window, and the moon, almost full, casts it’s eerie light over the bed. 

The sheet has fallen away entirely now, and Eliot’s cock is hard and heavy between his legs, the flushed head rosy and wet. He runs one hand over it lazily. He tips Quentin’s head back, kissing him, sweet and thorough, tongue slipping between his lips. 

Eliot’s deft fingers find the button of his jeans, tugging them open, pulling the zipper down and just barely grazing over Quentin’s dick. “C’mon, baby, let me get at that skin.”

Quentin gasps when Eliot lifts him and manhandles him out of his jeans. “God. You’re, um. I—”

“You okay?” He casts Quentin’s jeans to the floor, one arm still around him. 

“Yeah, I’m—it’s intense. It’s always intense but it’s—” Quentin takes a tremulous breath, his head swimming. Eliot is so self-assured—even with this fucking _departure_ from the _schedule_ —and he’s not sure how anyone like Eliot could _ever_ want Quentin and—having had him could _keep_ wanting him. The curse sits, miasmic, around the reality of his hopeless crush on Eliot, confusing all the pieces of what he wants and obscuring any hope of anything _real_. “—the moon.”

“Just relax, sweetheart.” Eliot pulls Quentin in close, tangling their legs together. His voice is rich and warm, soothing around the edges. “It feels so good to touch you. I just want to do what you want, make you feel good. You still want me to get you off?”

“Yeah—uh. Yeah, I—I do.” Quentin lets out a halting, ragged breath. “I’m just. I’m a little—uh. I mean. I was thinking—”

“What were you thinking?” Eliot’s cock is pressed against his thigh, Eliot breathing hard and fast as he touches himself and breathes into Quentin’s ear.

“Jesus. I’m—I—I’m really not that experienced with, uh.” Quentin gestures and ends up just patting Eliot’s arm, distracted by the curve of the muscle beneath his skin, the smattering of hair, the poky point of his elbow.

“Q, what do you want, baby?”

 _Baby_. Quentin’s brain mildly short-circuits any time Eliot drops _baby_ or _sweetheart_ , and it feels like even _more_ with Eliot’s lips brushing against his cheek. “Uh—I really want to—I mean, I don’t think you’ll say no, but I want to—if you’ll show me how. I want to, um.” Quentin gets lost again, running his hand over Eliot’s waist. 

“You gonna ask me for something, hm?”

“Hm? Oh, uh.” Quentin’s hands twitch, and his body twitches, a cascade of tensing and twitching and—really, this shouldn’t be difficult. They’re already naked, for fuck’s sake. “I wanna—um. I keep thinking about.” 

“What do you keep thinking about?” Eliot kisses his earlobe, magic sizzling beneath Quentin’s skin. 

“I wanna _suckyourdick_ ,” Quentin says in a rush, squeezing Eliot’s bicep and immediately burying his face in Eliot’s shoulder. His ears burn, his body a thrumming heartbeat. “I mean—I just. Haven’t done that and I—I want to.”

Eliot pulls Quentin in close, warm breath against his ear. “I bet you do.”

“You’re an asshole,” Quentin says, swatting at Eliot, who is actively laughing at him, one hand pressing his shoulder into the mattress, which is—infuriatingly—turning him on more.

“Mm, yeah. I’m also deeply enjoying the idea of you thinking about sucking my cock all day.” Eliot trails his fingers over Quentin’s arm, down over his ribs, down and down until he’s brushing his fingers over Quentin’s dick. The feeling hits him like a shot, sending his hips surging up and thrusting into Eliot’s hand.

“Who said it was—it wasn’t _all day._ ” Quentin tries to keep his tone firm, but he squeaks out the last word as Eliot gives his cock one even stroke.

“You were,” Eliot drawls. “You were thinking about it when I felt you up in front of Margo.” 

“You—you told her we’re _holding hands_! What the fuck— _oh_ —oh, _fuck_.” Eliot is stroking him slow, Quentin’s cock pulsing steadily, sending liquid light pooling in the pit of his gut. He knows he was going to say something about—about not thinking about Eliot’s dick, but there’s really no point when he’s thrusting into Eliot’s fist and crying out, sobbing, out of his mind, as echoes of pleasure rise and ricochet through him.

“Want me to make you come now or—after you suck my cock?”

“Oh—Christ, Eliot. I—I. After. If you want.”

“Oh, I do want,” Eliot says, stilling his hand. Quentin’s cock is painfully hard, pulsing, wetness beading up. He squirms against Eliot, pushes against his leg. “You want me to show you how to suck my cock, pretty boy?”

 _Pretty boy._ That one’s new. Quentin nods—and Eliot, groaning, tangles his fingers in Quentin’s hair, tugging it sharply and sending a hot spike of pleasure-tinged pain down the column of his spine. 

“Tell me.”

“Uh—yeah, I wanna. Um. I really want to suck your dick.” His mouth waters.

“Good.” Eliot kisses him—and it’s different this time, a bruising force behind it. “You like your hair pulled?”

“Um. I think so,” Quentin says, eyes fluttering as Eliot tugs again. “I—hnn—oh my God— _yeah_.”

“I can _feel_ how much you like that.”

“Yeah—mmph,” Quentin breathes. 

Eliot runs a finger over Quentin’s neck, circling his Adam’s apple. “Want me to show you a little spell that dampens your gag reflex?”

“Uh huh.” Eliot’s fingers crinkle in his hair, and he shudders, his cock jerking. 

“Get down there, baby.”

Quentin gasps when Eliot lets go of his hair, and he moves down the length of his body, pressing kisses along his chest and over the plane of his belly, at the jut of Eliot’s hipbone. When he closes his eyes, it’s like he can see the vibration of his own pleasure, swirling together with Eliot’s, bright bursts of silver-blue, pale and lovely like the light of the moon.

He’s spent a lot of time thinking about this hip in his waking hours, he thinks. Quentin rubs his cheek over the elegant shape of it as he hazily watches Eliot tut out a spell; a slick, open feeling takes over the back of his throat. He pulls himself up so he’s pressed between Eliot’s legs, hands running over his thighs. Eliot’s anticipation echoes in his mind, a second thread of arousal rising in the cradle of his hips, swirling up with his own. “You want me to—”

“Yeah, put your mouth on it, Q. I’ll show you.”

He feels Eliot’s hands tangle in his hair again, his legs wrapping around Quentin’s waist so they’re still connected at every possible point, the bond humming, pleased and whole, as Quentin takes the head of Eliot’s dick in his mouth, licking around the foreskin and tracing a vein with his tongue before taking it back further, the thick head hitting his soft palate. Eliot guides him into place and pushes and pushes, his cock head just barely hitting the back of his throat, his lips stretched and jaw aching as he moves his mouth over the velvet skin.

“Lips over your teeth, baby,” Eliot murmurs, still guiding him, thrusting up into his mouth and grunting as he holds Quentin by the hair. 

Quentin’s eyes flutter shut, and a pulsing-pounding warmth settles between his legs, like his own cock is held tight and warm. Sighing and contented, he holds tight to the base of Eliot’s cock, squeezing, his other hand playing over his balls as Eliot guides him, up and down, pleasure whirring and pinging inside, echoing on and on.

“You feel that? Hm? How good you make me feel? I can feel how turned on you are. Didn’t know—” Eliot grunts and fists at Quentin’s hair, shockwaves of pleasure rolling down his spine. “—how much you’d like sucking cock.”

Quentin just groans, nodding slightly—and he feels the answering sensation of his cock being contained and held, wetness and tight heat as Eliot presses slowly in, letting out a choked moan, and nestles the head of his dick right at the back of Quentin’s throat. 

“Never gonna stop thinking about this pretty mouth on my dick. Feels so good. Doing such a good job, baby.” He can feel Eliot’s eyes on him in the dark, and when he looks up, the warm light of the candles flickers over his features. He’s unreal. A god. A _king_. 

Quentin moans, drooling over his hand, everything slick with his spit. The sharp taste of Eliot’s precome is coming through as Eliot gently guides him, legs tensing and pulling Quentin in tight. The bond sings inside him, a pleased, tuneful humming, rewarding him with pleasure spreading out from his center, settling in his toes and fingertips, in his crinkled nipples, in the hard length of his cock. 

“I’m close, darling boy. You can push your fingers inside me if you want to explore.” Eliot’s voice is lilting and smooth, the barest edge of tension on the last syllables. Quentin’s fingers are already wet with spit, and he traces over Eliot’s perineum, pushing down to the cleft of his ass and, heart pounding, massaging his fingertips over his puckered hole. 

Eliot’s grip goes tighter in his hair, and Quentin feels it—feels how good it is—when he pushes one finger inside, just to the first knuckle. 

“More,” Eliot chokes out, bucking up into Quentin’s mouth, pushing all the way to the back of Quentin’s throat and keeping himself there as Quentin holds his breath and pushes further inside. “Oh—fuck, that’s so good. God, that mouth. It’s heaven, sweetheart. I’m gonna—”

Quentin pulls his finger almost all the way out and then presses, gentle, a second inside, Eliot’s tight heat pulsing around him, as he thrusts to the back of Quentin’s throat, almost brutal, crying out in a choked sob as he comes, splashing over Quentin’s tongue, hitting the back of his throat, filling his mouth as he swallows and swallows.

Once in college, Quentin had taken shrooms and had sex with his then-girlfriend. It had been—not perfect, but he remembers it because it was empty of the insecurity he typically experienced. It was shameless and dirty and _hot_ , fireworks going off in his mind, color exploding in his veins. That’s how it is, curled up in the space of Eliot’s legs, licking over the head of his cock and tasting him, wrapped up and held and safe.

The echo of Eliot’s orgasm unfolds in Quentin’s body, fullness and bliss and wet, hot relief. Quentin ruts forward against Eliot’s thigh and almost comes himself as Eliot spills in his mouth, pulling his hair hard enough he knows he’ll feel it tomorrow. And that’s—God, that’s what he wants more than anything. For Eliot to use him, mark him, so that he knows—so that everyone knows—he’s the one Eliot wants. 

Eliot’s cock grows soft over a span of—Quentin doesn’t know how long, but he doesn’t pull away until Eliot taps him on his shoulder and brings him up his long body, holding him and kissing him and telling him how good he was. The bond thrums, content, threads of magic reaching out and touching one another, woven together like the threads of a tapestry. 

Eliot tips his head back again and—and, God, Quentin is a slut for this—kisses him hard, licking his own taste out of Quentin’s mouth, nibbling at his bottom lip and stroking his thumb over Quentin’s cheekbone. Little aftershocks of Eliot’s pleasure roll through him, his toes curling, his scalp prickling. His cock is throbbing hard but he thinks he could just lie like this for hours, barely brushing up against Eliot’s thigh, dancing on the razor’s edge of relief, living on the humming excitement of the bond, magic jumping between them, warming the skin beneath Eliot’s fingers and filing down the sharp points of anxiety in his brain and body, like he’s been smoothed flat and round, a river rock beneath clear water. 

“What do you want, Q?”

“Mm, what?” He sticks his nose against Eliot’s neck. He smells like sweat and sex and faintly of the woodsy cologne he puts on in the mornings. Bergamot, Eliot’s said. Quentin’s not sure what a bergamot is, just that it’s what Eliot smells like, so he knows he likes it. Wants to wrap himself in it and make it home. 

“I wanna make you come,” he says, pressing his lips to Quentin’s forehead. “You made me feel so good with that lovely mouth, and I just wanna feel you come apart. You want my hands or my mouth?”

The words don’t sink into Quentin’s mind, instead sitting there like drops of oil on the surface of water, not sinking beyond the fuzzy-hazy bliss of Eliot’s sated bond. “What do I want?” The words are foggy, the thoughts that accompany them moving thick and sweet like caramelized sugar.

“Yeah, baby. C’mon. Tell me.” Eliot grips his waist, thumb moving in circles, sending shimmery little tingles through his hips and thighs.

“Oh, hmm, I want you—” He snuggles up into Eliot and presses their lips together again, quick and sweet, just to taste him.

“Yeah? You made that fairly clear when you swallowed my dick.”

Quentin laughs, smiling against Eliot’s lips. “You picked up on that? I think my secret’s out.”

“What’s that?”

“I have a crush on you.”

“Oh?” Eliot laughs—and it's a sweet laugh, warm—and he rubs their noses together. The ache in Quentin’s cock picks up; he feels raw and tender like an exposed nerve. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.”

“I want you just—lie on top of me. I want you to touch me everywhere.”

“I can do that.” He takes Quentin’s wrist and pins it above his head, and—his whole body goes slack. Eliot slides on top of him, covering him with his full weight. “How’s that? Mm? Good?”

“Oh— _oh_. Yeah that’s. That’s exactly what I want. You good?”

“Yeah, baby. I’m so good.” His breath is hot against Quentin’s neck, and he presses his lips there, sucking a mark just above his collarbone.

“Not too, uh, sensitive? Your dick—”

“Glad you’re so worried about my dick.”

Quentin huffs. “I’m just being, uh, considerate.”

“Mm, I’m good. I’m probably gonna get hard again. God bless the fucking moon.” Eliot pushes forward against Quentin’s belly, and he can feel it, the heat rushing to Eliot’s cock as it stiffens up against his slick skin. 

Quentin laughs, helpless, his cock trapped between their bodies, waves of pleasure rolling up his spine as Eliot rocks against him. Quentin’s eyes roll back in his head, and a crackling sensation fills him, like he’s a sugary cereal, popping in a bowl of milk. “S’the moon. S’her fault I’m in your bed begging for your dick.”

“Is that why?”

“Mmm, no. Well, yes.” He presses his lips and nose against the hollow of Eliot’s neck, blissed out on the heavy weight of Eliot’s body. He bucks his hips up against Eliot’s stiffening cock, making Eliot jolt and moan, fluttering out against his heated skin. “I was already thinking about it. To be clear.” Quentin moves his free hand to Eliot’s ass and squeezes. “I hope that’s okay,” he adds, his pulse picking up. 

“More than,” Eliot says, voice soft. 

“Good—I, uh, don’t know what that means for us—”

“Don’t overthink it.” Eliot raises the hand not holding Quentin down and tuts lazily, the lube sailing ridiculously from the open drawer of Eliot’s nightstand. “Got an idea for you.”

“An idea,” Quentin repeats. He watches as Eliot coats his hand with lube, lifting up and slicking Quentin’s cock. He makes a punched out sound, trembling as Eliot rearranges them and moves Quentin’s cock between his thighs. Eliot shifts down so that Quentin’s cock is tucked into the tight space, pressed close and hot like he's inside Eliot.

“That feel good?”

“Holy fuck—oh _God_ —” Quentin’s hips buck up reflexively, warm and wet and _snug_ , the friction there so _different_ , his body singing with it.

“That’s a yes?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, arching his hips up experimentally, Eliot’s thighs held close around him. The strands of the curse—Quentin can feel the magic when he closes his eyes—they’re buzzing, humming and delighted, twirling up with the magic at Eliot’s core. An ache, tender and hungry, sits low in his hips, centered on his cock, where Eliot holds him with his body, hot and sheathed inside.

“Here,” Eliot says, brushing his stubbled cheek over Quentin’s jaw and kissing him light, just a brush of his lips, “hold onto my waist. I’m gonna take care of you.” 

“That feels so—I’ve never felt anything like—” The train of thought vanishes from Quentin’s mind as his hands roam over the muscles in Eliot’s back. He’d thought about this so many times. Being with Eliot like this. He hadn’t imagined this, exactly—he feels like he missed this in Porn 101, or Porn 201 for that matter, and he needs to go back to the tablet he keeps hidden under his bed and do some exploring—but he’d thought many times about just being covered by the full weight of Eliot. Wrapped up in him, buried and weighted down. He’s thrusting up slowly, so slowly, and he thinks of the head of his cock peeking out from between Eliot’s thighs and he moans, letting one hand fall to Eliot’s really, truly—Michelangelo’s _David_ style—ass.

“You can give it a little squeeze,” Eliot says, his voice raw and wanting but tinged with his particular brand of humor. “We’re here—you might as well.” Eliot. Dark and irreverent and sharp and very essentially himself and Quentin—Quentin had sort of thought he wanted to be like Eliot, at first. And he’d thought—he wanted Eliot as a friend. Someone to look at and admire and—yeah, he’d thought of this, imagined it, just didn’t think he could have it. He hates it, the bond, because it makes everything so deeply fucking complicated—but. He squeezes Eliot’s perfect, lovely ass and laughs, and Eliot laughs with him.

“Hold still,” Eliot murmurs, planting his forearms on either side of Quentins body and groaning as he flexes his body, moving so Quentin’s cock slides along the slick insides of his thighs, creating pressure and friction and tight heat—making Quentin’s cock fuck into the space he’d created. Quentin’s brain turns to liquid, and he’s grunting, punched out _unh-unh-unh_ sounds, as Eliot tenses and releases his core and his thighs, muscles jumping beneath Quentin’s fingers. Eliot’s cock, trapped between them is growing hard, so hard and—wet, Quentin can feel it—

“You were so good for me, Q. Think you can come like this?”

“Y-yes—I’m close.” He sucks at Eliot’s neck, kissing and licking and crying out as Eliot flexes faster and less controlled, his dick sliding over Quentin’s stomach. 

“You want something in your mouth, huh?”

Quentin can’t even respond to that because his brain has forgotten what words are since it’s focused on the tight, wet, hot space between Eliot’s thighs, the thought of what it might be like to fuck Eliot, hold his long legs and—what if Eliot rode him and he sobs, open mouthed, vaguely aware that Eliot’s fingers are petting over his tongue. He closes his mouth around them, moaning, filthy, his body arching up again in time with the rhythmic movement of Eliot’s body. The pressure builds, tension spooling tight as he licks over Eliot’s fingers and ruts up into him, closer and closer, the magic fizzing in his blood, appeased and _happy_ , like it is a sentient thing, and it just wants this—Eliot, Eliot’s body, the touch of his lips—and his soul is singing alongside it. The pieces of his release begin to fall into place, unwinding slow and steady and—

“Gonna come for me? Get me all messy?” Eliot whispers right into his ear and bites down on his earlobe, sucking at it, his ears filled with filthy-wet noises—and the vague thought that he wouldn’t exactly mind if anyone in the Cottage heard them. 

Quentin bucks up, groaning as the the first rush hits, the beat of magic thrumming through him alongside the filaments of his own pleasure, his cock pulsing, before he even—

“Good boy,” Eliot murmurs, and Quentin comes, sucking at his fingers and spurting hot over Eliot’s ass and the back of his thighs, nails digging into his skin as pleasure pours through him, splitting open and breaking like a dam, relief pouring out of him in waves, as he spills and spills, everything slick and hot and _messy_.

He’s hazily aware of Eliot’s fingers falling from his mouth. Bathed in moonlight, Eliot takes his cock in hand and, shuddering, strokes his cock efficiently, gripping Quentin’s hip and staring down at his body open-mouthed, letting out a primal, animal sound as he bucks forward into his fist and comes, spurting over Quentin’s cock and his belly, less than a minute later.

Quentin is still breathing fast as Eliot collapses next to him, his leg slung over Quentin’s. “That was—”

“Mm,” Eliot agrees. He tuts out a cleaning spell, his hands so beautifully precise. He summons his pack of cigarettes with a twist of his fingers and lights one with a movement that Quentin can’t make out. It’s like he pulls the magic from the air, barely thinking. He lights a second for Quentin and passes it to him without saying anything.

The little rush of nicotine sits alongside the drugged bliss of his release and the fizzing of the interwoven magic. Quentin blows a smoke ring toward the ceiling, watching it disappear into whatever air purifying charm Eliot keeps going in his room. Quentin’s feeling clearer than he has in a long time, so clear, in fact that he’s feeling a little bit stupid with it. 

“Hey,” Quentin says.

Eliot takes a drag of his cigarette and blows it toward the ceiling. He twirls his fingers and makes a spiral with the smoke. “Hi,” he says.

“I know we can’t really go anywhere in the evenings. Um, at least not like when the moon is close to being full. But do you know about the waning moon?”

Eliot turns to him, a little smirk on his face. “No, I don’t know about the waning moon, Q.” 

Quentin’s cheeks go a little hot, and his stomach flips—it’s harder to concentrate on anything with Eliot’s eyes on him. That’s sort of been the state of things since day one at Brakebills. “I mean. I just thought I’d ask. If you did know.”

“I don’t. Was there a point to your question?”

“Oh. Um. I was thinking we could have lunch.”

Eliot’s smirk goes smirkier. “Yeah? Like a date?”

“Uh, if you want it to be?”

“Quentin, are you asking me on a date? When we’re already bonded by some ancient revenge curse? After we just jizzed all over—”

“Uh, yes,” Quentin says, cutting him off. He has absolutely nothing to lose. So. Why the fuck not? “El, do you want to go to lunch with me?”

“What did you have in mind? I don’t think you have the clout to get in anywhere exclusive enough—”

“Shut the fuck up. So—”

“Yeah, I will,” Eliot says. “Though I really don’t think you know what you’re getting into.”

“I think I know.”

“Fine,” Eliot says. “It’s your funeral.”


	3. i know i'm gonna be with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some smut, banana milkshakes, a nap. 
> 
> hoko updates the chapter count again in a shocking move that no one expected
> 
> but don't worry, i got 3k on the next one. it won't be a 3 month wait. i promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much to my beta, rubick, my cheerreader mixtapestar, and my online support team, u know who u are. i wouldn't have made it through this year without y'all.

Eliot wakes up with Quentin all tucked into his side, the bond humming happily in his chest, the magic pulsing within him like the beating of a second heart. If he closes his eyes, he can almost see it—the tendrils of the curse, attached to the core of his magic and twisted up with Quentin’s, the fibers rolled together like spun wool. 

At its core, the enchantment is inelegant, balled up and knotted where it connects them. Lipson told them that’s where the genius of the spell lies; the joined pieces are so messy and matted that the spell work is almost indistinguishable from Quentin and Eliot’s separate sources of magic, curled into their viscera, living off of their desire and multiplying it in turn. The strands coil tighter, needing more and more fuel as the moon waxes. 

Eliot knows he should be trying harder to break the bond. He should be researching it or trying something— _anything_ , but the very possibility of _fixing it_ , of _losing this_ sends a spiral of pain through his gut, a seasick sense of loss. He’d lose _this_ —waking up, piece by piece, at 3AM, Quentin’s ass pressed into the line of his cock, the warm weight of his dense body, packed tight against Eliot. 

He’d lose nights like _this_. 

Quentin had dropped all pretense of coming to Eliot’s room to study tonight, making a beeline for the bed where Eliot lay, already half-hard, curls artfully mussed, reclined in nothing but his red silk robe. 

Quentin had leaned in— _Is this okay? I know it’s early_ —and kissed Eliot, hot and rough, his body melting against Eliot’s like honey on fresh bread. Quentin had—so sweetly—asked to suck Eliot’s cock again— _you taste so fucking good_ —and what was Eliot going to do? He’s helpless when Quentin looks at him all wide-eyed and—very sincerely—asks if he can suck Eliot’s _beautiful dick_.

He’d guided Quentin onto his cock again, fingers tangled loose in his hair, legs wrapped around Quentin’s firm body as he fucked into his mouth, lifting his hips up and thrusting hard into the slick heat, cock dragging over his soft palate, nudging into the back of his throat and holding it there for seconds at a time. Quentin had to pull off and catch his breath, his lips and chin wet, his eyes blown dark— 

Eliot had tried to pull back, stay gentle and controlled, even as the bond wound its way between them, strands of magic reaching out, multiplying like sparks catching and turning to flame, searing through his hips, down the length of his dick—his body screaming to possess and take and _fuck_. But Quentin had thrown himself back on Eliot’s cock, working him deep, swallowing around him and looking up at Eliot in that wholly innocent, fully filthy way—and Eliot hadn’t needed to hold back—

He’d thrown his head back and let out a broken sound, divorced from the typical Eliot Waugh veneer of control—and he’d wanted nothing more than to take hold of Quentin’s head and fuck relentlessly into the snug, slick space of his throat—and he could _sense_ the heft of Quentin’s own arousal as he took Eliot in his mouth, when he licked the precome away from his tip—he could _barely_ stop himself and say—“You okay, Q?”—and Quentin had _moaned_ and taken him deeper. 

They were both high on the bare, ripped open wanting that echoed between them, the bond buzzing in their blood and bones as Eliot bucked up and came in Quentin’s throat. He’d pulled a hot, panting Quentin into his lap and stroked his cock, whispering in his ear and backing off whenever he got close—telling him he was a sweet boy, so good at sucking cock, and he’d looked so pretty all wet and messy. When Quentin was leaking over Eliot’s fingers and shaking, begging to come, Eliot had lowered him to the mattress, careful not to lose contact as he worked his way down Quentin’s body and swallowed his pretty little dick, pushing his fingers against Quentin’s hole, circling and rubbing and pushing _just inside_ , to the first knuckle—until he came, cursing and shouting, over Eliot’s tongue.

When he’d swallowed Quentin’s come, he’d groaned with the pleasure of it, a deep, glowing warmth spreading through him, reaching through every cell, his muscles relaxing, his thoughts drifting away and going fuzzy in that hazy-pleasant way—like he was wrapped up and nestled in blankets by an open fire. Or lying on the beach with sunlight pouring over his skin.

It’s pretty fucked up, how much the bond fucks with them, how he craves Quentin like a drug, feeds off the idea that Quentin craves him the same.

As far as Eliot can tell, the enchantment is linked with their nervous systems, and when they touch, the magic acts on whatever-the-fuck receptors and generates a metric fuckload of endorphins and dopamine, serotonin, probably oxytocin—who the fuck knows what else—it’s a legitimate mind fuck; he knows that for sure. Eliot knows his drugs, and at the start of the waxing moon, he’d at least been able to catalog each sensation, compare his nights with Quentin to actual experiences he’s had. But now it’s—so fucking far beyond the realm of his experience, outside of anything he’s felt on this earthly plane—and several of the psychic ones he’d visited in his early experiments with transcendental sex magic—he has no frame of reference. 

Something almost possessive hums inside him alongside the magnetic weave of the curse. He brushes his thumb along the ridge of Quentin’s strong, square jaw. His long lashes flutter, and he makes a sweet, sleepy noise. The bond surges, a wave of bliss washing through Eliot, the blood beating along the length of his cock. 

_Mine_ , he thinks. His gut twists because he knows, he _knows_ that the magic is guiding so much of what they are, what they’re becoming. But his body sings when he thinks the word, buzzy warmth blooming in his chest. _Mine. No one gets to have him the way I do._

Q’s throat will be sore tomorrow; he’ll feel the phantom nudge of Eliot’s dick, the weight of it against his lips, voice hoarse, jaw sore. And Quentin will remember—this is where he belongs, where Eliot can take care of him, give him what he needs. Where Eliot can take exactly what he wants.

He closes his eyes, tries to center himself. This isn’t the way Eliot _thinks_. Or—it’s not a way that he’s let himself think until now. Eliot’s… _bare_. Unhinged. Fucked up over Quentin. 

Part of him likes the thought of Quentin’s mind returning, again and again, to Eliot—to the ache in his throat, the demands of the bonding enchantment, the reality that he’ll _need_ Eliot, need his touch. That he’ll be desperate for Eliot tonight when the moon rises, shining full through the window. That sliver of a thought sends a hot thrill straight to his dick, but—

Other times, he’s terrified. Even in a world where he’d let himself consider the possibility of a relationship, it isn’t supposed to be like _this_. Even if Quentin made it clear—Eliot’s eyes flutter closed, and he sighs, pushing the air out slowly—

Quentin _likes_ him. Jesus, he feels like he’s fifteen, hormones and adrenaline flooding his body, his thoughts clouded and floating.

And Quentin is here in his bed, so he can just—

He puts a hand to Quentin’s hip, marveling at how lovely it looks against his slim, tight body. _Where he belongs_ , he thinks again— _here_.

Eliot pants a little, rocking into the cleft of his ass, his nipples crinkled hard, dragging a bit against Quentin’s back. It’s slick and hot and tight when he presses into him, a soft moan escaping the back of his throat. Eliot can see all of him like this, his furred thighs and the curve of his ass against his dick, Quentin’s length a bright line running parallel to his. The muscles in his abdomen tense, his cock pulsing as he slides against Quentin’s ass. His cock lets out a little spurt of precome, and he gasps, rutting forward, the drag of Quentin’s hot skin sending pulses along the length of his dick, heat blossoming low in the tensed muscles of his pelvis. 

God, he’s going to need to wake Quentin up—Eliot needs him so fucking badly—he licks across the ridge of Quentin’s shoulder, out of his mind, his thighs shaking and burning. The enchantment sings just beneath his skin, reaching out and twisting up with the threads of Quentin’s magic. 

Quentin stirs next to him, stretching in a long line against Eliot’s body, pressing his ass back against Eliot’s cock—and Eliot grunts, hips stuttering forward, out of his mind as the magic crests within him. 

“Oh, _fuck_ , baby—hnn—” Eliot murmurs, nipping at Quentin’s shoulder. Quentin is going to make him go certifiably fucking insane with his sleepy, grumbling sounds and the press of his hot little body. He whimpers and rocks back against Eliot—God, he’s got such a _perfect_ handful of ass. Eliot just wants to spread him open, and just _sink in_ , fuck him rough—or so dizzingly slow that he’s wrung out, aching and crying out, begging for Eliot to let him come.

Eliot’s cock is all plumped up, nestled against Quentin’s ass. He presses his nose to Quentin’s neck, smelling the leftover traces of his drugstore shampoo, his hair smooth and shiny and silky against Eliot’s cheek. Quentin is whining, desperate, writhing, clasping Eliot’s hand in his and trying to bring Eliot’s hand to his cock.

Eliot bites down on another moan, sweat prickling over his forehead. When he closes his eyes, all he can think of is the hot, slow slide of his cock sinking into Quentin’s ass. And he knows—he _knows_ —if he asked Q— _can I fuck you until you forget your own name?_ —Quentin’s eyes would go wide, and his stupid long lashes would flutter, and he’d say— _yeah, of course, El, whatever you need_ —he’d let Eliot do anything he _wanted_. The power buzzes inside him, a potent drug clouding his senses.

Which is— _why_ is he resisting this again? Is it because he promised to let Quentin take him to lunch—at a _diner_ —and he’s having second thoughts or—is it because he actually _wants_ to go on a fucking date? Or—worse yet—is it because when he’s thinking about fucking, he’s _only_ thinking about fucking Quentin? It’s still Quentin; it’s always Quentin. Quentin’s face, Quentin’s hands, his broad shoulders and his firm body and his soft, kissable pout, Quentin’s dick—Jesus Christ, it’s such a _nice dick_ —his muscled, furry thighs and his stupid beautiful face and his nerdy rants and his propensity for tripping over his own feet, his expressive brows, the way he chews up pencils when he’s studying, the soft noises he makes in his sleep. 

So it’s all of that. And that seems like—sort of what he’s always felt about Quentin. It’s not just sex, and it’s not _just_ the curse. It’s all of it, spun up and knotted and utterly indecipherable, one piece from another. This thing with Quentin, it goes against his carefully developed self-preservation, all of his walls within worn thin by the enchantment, falling away like wet tissue paper.

Eliot doesn’t know, he can’t parse it out, can’t make sense of it. He just wants and _wants_ , wants everything. With Quentin. 

Quentin makes a low, soft, kittenish noise, and he turns, yawning and pressing his body close, chest to chest, his cock brushing against Eliot’s thigh, warm mouth pressed to Eliot’s shoulder. Eliot’s mind goes fuzzy, whiting out around the edges. There was a train of thought, he thinks, as he reaches up to the moonlight pouring in from the window—but the train is gone now. Derailed. Right now, everything is just—the silvery light cool against his skin, the heat of Quentin’s body, the fizzing, popping bubbles in his brain, the hard, twitching length of his cock pressed to the soft fur of Quentin’s belly. 

What was he… God, what was he thinking about? He can feel the shape of it in his mind; he even knows the words if he thinks about them hard enough. Quentin—Quentin wants him, wants to be with him, wants to—hold hands and watch movies and sit next on his lap at parties. And that pinged something in Eliot, kept _tick-tick-ticking_ in his ear that this is _wrong_ , that Quentin only wants him because they’ve been bound by the curse, and he’s eaten up with lust. Consumed by the ravenous threads of magic, ever seeking, ever needing.

It doesn’t matter. Why would it matter when Eliot wants Quentin, and the whole of Quentin is pressed up against him, and his body is coming to life, waking up as Eliot walks his fingers over Quentin’s shoulder, sweeps the back of his knuckles over his arm and takes his strong square hand, threading his fingers through it. Time stretches out, like a movie clip in slow motion—Eliot’s lips pressing to Q’s cheek, over his jaw, against his tender lips as his eyes flutter open and he sighs against Eliot’s mouth. Eliot’s reaching for Quentin’s cock, which is fattening up against Eliot’s leg—and Quentin stops him—

“I want you inside me,” Quentin says, his voice raspy with sleep, kissing Eliot and moaning into him. “I want you to fuck me. God, I was—dreaming about your dick. I want it—” Quentin’s lips slide against his, and he ruts into Eliot’s hand, pupils blown when he opens his eyes. “Need it so fucking bad.”

Eliot should say something measured and careful, something about respecting Quentin and wanting him and yeah, they’ll eventually fuck if they both want to under the right circumstances—maybe at the new moon—instead—

The sickness of the curse that sits within both of them ratchets up at the mention of _fucking_. It zings through him, and his chest grows tight, his cock _aching_ , leaking. He just _wants_. He wants it _now_ , and he wants it tonight, and he wants it—every fucking day.

“Have you ever been fucked before, Q?” The words melt over his lips like sweet candy. 

Quentin wraps his hand around Eliot’s dick, massaging his thumb over the foreskin, and Eliot’s breath hitches in his chest. “Yeah, I mean. But you know. Store bought.” He lets out a little puff of breath. Eliot wants to crawl inside his mouth and live there. “Smaller. Than you. But I like it. A lot. Getting fucked and, um. Being filled up.”

Eliot’s brain threatens to actually explode. Who’d have guessed that Quentin Coldwater was hiding a drawer full of dildos in his nightstand? (Honestly, Margo had called it, if he’s being honest.)

“Good experience to have,” Eliot murmurs, pulling up some semblance of decency from his incredibly thin reserves, now made thinner by the vision of Quentin with a bevy of dildos. “We should—take it slow, okay?”

“I just need,” Quentin says, a little panicked. “I just—please, I want it so much. I promise I’ll be good. I’ll do what you say—I’ll be good.”

Holy fuck. Quentin’s not letting up, squeezing Eliot’s dick, thumbing against the head, swirling precome over his tip. “I know you’ll be—you’ll be so good, baby. You’ve already been _so_ good.” Eliot kisses him, wild and hungry and desperate, sucking on his bottom lip as Quentin shudders against him. “You have absolutely no idea how much—I want to—get inside you. But we should. Be careful. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You could never hurt me, El. I trust you.”

“God—I—” There’s a bead of precome swelling up at his tip, a shiver running down his cock as he rocks against Quentin’s dick. He lets out a choked off noise as Quentin strokes him. “We should—we should wait. Until the moon is waning or fucking—whatever, I don’t know. So it’s not—”

Eliot can’t even tell what he’s saying. If he thought it was like being high when they hit the waxing moon, this is like taking a megahit of a magic hallucinogen mixed with Dimetapp and Goldschlager, time dripping around him like syrup, his words jumbled, his brain full of fuzz and flowers. 

“Please. _Please._ I’ll do anything you want. I’ll let you do—anything. I don’t care. I just want you inside me.”

“Oh, God.” Eliot moans, bucking against Quentin’s cock, their bodies slick with sweat and precome, the friction and slide sending a rush of sensation through his core, spinning upward and out, the magic pulling at him, tugging him in, making his hips buck reflexively against Quentin’s solid little hip. He wants to pin Quentin, slick him up and fuck into him in one slide. Feel the resistance and the heat, slide in achingly slow and fuck him in hard, even strokes as he moans into the mattress and— “Let me—I’m gonna—I’ll do it _tonight_. Not now. Tonight. I’ll get you all _open_ and ready and—I’ll do it tonight.”

What the fuck is Eliot saying? Why would he say it? God, if anything, he needs to fucking cool it for a few nights. But his mouth waters now that he’s said the words, like he can taste the sensation of opening Quentin and sliding into him. He ruts against Quentin’s hip like he’s, he doesn’t even know—like when he was fifteen and got his first hand job from Jebediah Fischer, shaking and coming apart, out of his mind with unbridled teenage lust in the school theater dressing room.

Quentin whines. “No—come on—I need it—fuck, I need it now.” His voice is hoarse.

“I’ll—I’m gonna make you feel good. Right now, I promise.” He rolls Quentin onto his back, taking his wrists and pressing him into the pillow, a thrill running through him as Quentin wriggles beneath him. Quentin goes slack beneath his hands, his eyes fluttering closed as Eliot presses his full body weight on top of him.

Quentin moans, shameless, like he’s tucking into Thanksgiving dinner after waiting around for hours, starving. 

_Dinner is served_ , Eliot thinks, pressing a hot kiss to Quentin’s lips and coaxing his mouth open, as his hips rock, instinctive, against Quentin’s marvelous little body. He drags his hands down Quentin’s arms, fingertips brushing over the hair on his forearms, the soft, tight lines of his biceps, down to his chest, where Eliot thumbs at his pebbled nipples, all the while rocking gently against the line of his dick. “You want my big cock inside you?”

Quentin nods, making a wordless, desperate sobbing sound, his forehead hot against Eliot’s shoulder. “Yeah. It’s all I want.” His words are slow and thick, like his tongue is too big for his mouth. 

Eliot lets out a cracked groan, sharp wanting rising inside him. “I have—” he pants. “I’ve heard that before. Didn’t know you’d really want that. You and not the—curse.”

“It’s me—I wanna—” Quentin’s voice is hoarse, and Eliot knows he was the one to do that, make it that way. “I swear it’s me—I knew I wanted it when I first, when I, um.” Quentin blinks like he’s trying to focus, say the right words. “When I first saw you. I jerked off about you—that night. I did.” He reaches up and twists his fingers through Eliot’s curls. “You’re so—you’re just so fucking beautiful.”

A wild bubble of giddiness rises through Eliot’s core. Eliot is used to being wanted, but Quentin wanting him is different, somehow. There’s a dark voice within him, shouting it’s the curse making Q want this. He pushes it aside, rutting forward against Quentin’s dick. “I’ll do it tonight. I promise. I’ll take care of you.” He rubs his face over Quentin’s jaw, savoring the hint of stubble scraping against his skin.

“Tonight?” Quentin’s voice is a little wild, his nails digging into Eliot’s shoulders.

“Fuck, okay. Tonight.” Eliot swallows against the knot in his throat, fear and disbelief warring with the bald desire pulsing beneath his skin. When he closes his eyes, he can feel Quentin’s hunger for him, can almost sense the threads of his magic weaving together with his own. They’re both beholden to it, destroyed by it, locked together in a tangled cage of magic and wanting. 

“Need it.” The words come out in a plaintive rush, the tone of his voice sending a jolt straight to Eliot’s dick. God, he’s not going to survive Quentin Coldwater begging for his cock. God. _Be careful what you wish for_ , Eliot thinks. _You just might get it in the form of a lethal curse._

Eliot’s going to give it to him. Give him whatever he wants. Make it so good, make it so it doesn’t matter if it’s the curse compelling him; Eliot will make it so Quentin never wants anything else, so he just wants to be in Eliot’s bed. _Fuck_. “You feel all empty right now, hm?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. His cock is so wet at the tip; it feels heavenly when Eliot slides against it, the right mix of slip and fiction. 

“I can help you with that.” He covers Quentin’s lips, drawing him into a filthy kiss. “Tell me. Anyone ever had their fingers inside you?”

“Uh.” Quentin blinks, a little frantic, like he can’t fully process the question. “Fuck. Um. I mean.” Quentin’s eyes dart to the side. “Like. I’ve done it—by myself.”

Eliot’s brain fully whites out for a second, all thoughts replaced by the image of Quentin spread open and fucking himself with his fingers. He’s going to have to revisit that when he’s less—absolutely fucking insane. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

Quentin squirms beneath him, whimpering a little as he thrusts his cock up against Eliot’s hip. “I sure as fuck hope not. Because you need to fuck me.”

“I will, you brat.” Eliot bites his lips, his blood fizzing, cock pulsing as he sits back. Panic threatens to rise within his chest at the distance between them, but when he wraps Quentin’s thighs around his waist, his heart rate evens out, the touch of his thighs reassuring, securing. 

Quentin pants as he watches Eliot, eyes flicking from his face to his hands as he tuts out the little spell to draw lube to his fingers. He looks so beautiful like this, all bathed in the moonlight, and god, Eliot will give him anything, give it all to him. He hitches Quentin closer and presses his slick fingers between his cheeks to find the pucker of his hole. A broken groan falls from Quentin’s lips as Eliot circles and presses in, just past the point of resistance. 

The feeling rises in Eliot, the weighty anticipation and shattering hunger that belongs to Quentin knotted together with his own need. His cock, untouched and heavy between his legs, aches—but God, it’s a good ache, the beat of it throbbing through his hips, muscles in his low back twitching with it—as he slips one finger just inside.

“Oh, fuck.” The muscles in Quentin’s abdomen tense as Eliot pushes inside, and Eliot shushes him, rubbing over his thighs with his free hand, soothing. 

“Breathe, Q. You okay?”

Quentin nods, eyes squeezed shut, teeth visible against the bow of his lower lip. 

“Feel good.”

“Yeah—it’s so good. Too good—” He squirms against Eliot’s hand, like he’s trying to take more, go deeper. But—he’s tight, so tight, muscles inside twitching against Eliot’s finger, which—makes Eliot’s cock jerk—but also—he needs to go slow, be careful.

“Push down against me,” he murmurs, “and breathe out.”

Quentin breathes out, relaxes and bears down against Eliot’s hand, taking him to the second knuckle, nice and easy so that Eliot can draw back and press in again—all the way now. “Good job, baby.” 

A glittering rush of arousal blooms in the cradle of Eliot’s hips as he moves his finger inside Quentin, feeling the tight drag inside and thinking about taking him for the first time, hearing all the shocked little sounds he’ll make, and Eliot—Eliot will make it so good. Quentin’s cock jumps—and his little hips arch up, his mouth hanging open, soundless—when Eliot hits his prostate the first time, just barely brushing against it. God, Eliot can feel the pleasure of it, ringing through his ass and hips and down the length of his cock, like ripples in a pond.

“You want more?”

“Yeah—please. I’m—fuck, El, I’m getting close from—just this—I’m not gonna last.”

“You don’t need to.” Eliot fits a second finger inside, pushing in slow, his own hips jerking forward as he fills Quentin again. He’s all tight and silky-hot, and Eliot’s—Eliot’s not going to last, himself. Which is fine. He’ll—for tonight—he’ll jerk off and take the edge off before he fucks Quentin. That seems like a fine plan, and he files it away, tucking it back in his head as he presses in deep and feels Quentin’s body release, going liquid.

“Doing so good, baby.” Eliot fucks into him in steady strokes now, crooking his fingers and brushing against his prostate with every thrust. Quentin is sobbing now, his legs shaking against Eliot’s waist, his hips rocking up as Eliot sinks his fingers inside, opening and opening him. 

“More,” he breathes, eyes wide, “please. Please, I’m—” He pants, clearly not able to form more syllables, and Eliot can’t blame him for that. The bond heightens every touch, multiplies it, and Eliot is particularly skilled with his hands. 

A third finger slips inside with only a little resistance, and Quentin lets out a shocky, garbled sound as Eliot holds his hand still, pressed all the way into the hilt, just to feel Quentin’s tight body give way around him. Q’s cock is leaking steadily now, and Eliot can sense that he’s at the precipice, just from Eliot’s fingers. 

“You think you can come like this, or do you wanna stroke that pretty cock to finish yourself off?”

Quentin sobs—no real response, but he lowers his hand to his waistline, brushing his fingers over his cock, hard and angry red. He jolts from the touch; he’s so close, and Eliot can sense the weight of it, the thick, building need as Eliot fucks into him with his fingers and Quentin starts to stroke himself in earnest.

“You gonna come on my fingers, baby?” Eliot grins, eyes raking over Quentin’s dense, lithe little body as it thrums up, slick, tight heat tensing up against him. 

Quentin makes a garbled sound that might be a word, more or less. 

“That’s a rhetorical question. I know you are, aren’t you?”

Quentin’s so slick with precome already that everything sounds slick and wet as he jerks off, panting hard now, the red head of his cock peeking out from his fist. “Harder,” he rasps.

“You need it so much.” Eliot’s body is thrumming, pulse jittering as he thrusts his fingers inside, still precise and controlled despite the frantic fibers of the spell twirling around them. Quentin’s movements are fast and needy, like he’ll explode if he doesn’t fucking come in the next five seconds and his face—pink-cheeked and mouth wide, split open with pleasure—is the loveliest thing Eliot’s ever seen. In any realm, world without end.

“Oh, holy _fuck_ , El—” Quentin’s abdomen seizes, hips bucking up, his body drawing Eliot’s fingers into the hilt as he makes a garbled, gasping sound loud enough to pierce Eliot’s sound wards and—he comes, shaking and shuddering, spilling over his hand, hot over his belly.

Eliot has the stray impulse to lick it all up, but he’s so close himself, his cock throbbing, painful and neglected. When he pulls away from Quentin and takes himself in hand, he nearly comes on the first stroke.

His whole body bucks forward, the muscles in his thighs jumping as he works his slick fist over the length of his cock, moaning as his eyes rake over Quentin’s flushed face, his kiss-bitten lips, the streaks of come on his belly. Pleasure blooms, deep within, circling up and up as he pumps his cock, Quentin panting and watching him, with a dark, hungry look still in his eyes. A low, broken sound rises from his chest as the coil of pressure twists up in his center. The orgasm hits him like the crest of a wave, his balls drawn up tight, pressure building and giving way, spiraling out from his center to the tips of his fingers, the meat of his toes as he—hitches forward and comes, crying out, over Quentin’s spent cock.

They’re both laid bare with the aftershocks, kissing sweet and slick and filthy, everything between them a mess until Eliot tuts out a lazy cleaning spell between kisses, leaving them warm and dry and spent. He falls asleep with Quentin holding him, which isn’t something he’s wanted in a long time, he thinks. Certainly, he’s craved touch, wanted and desired other boys. It’s just, he thinks in a terrifying swoop in his gut, that this feels _new_. Quentin is a different beast entirely.

He doesn’t dwell on it for long because he’s slept so little. Instead, he lets himself drift off, face pressed to Quentin’s shoulder, breathing the scent of his skin.

~~***~~

When Eliot wakes up, he feels—fucking hungover, even though he didn’t actually drink the day before. Which is kind of a recent first. He’s not going to contemplate the whole not-drinking thing, but he can meditate on, as he peels his face away from Quentin’s chest, the fact that it’s thoroughly unfair he has the whole hangover piece of things _sans_ the gratification of actual alcohol. 

“ _Fuck_ , Jesus. God. I feel like,” Quentin mumbles, rubbing at his face and nearly whacking his elbow into Eliot’s eye. “Oh my God—sorry, _fuck_.”

“Double fucks. You know it’s a bad morning when there’s double fucks.”

“Are you sure we didn’t get fucked up on—magic crack or some shit. The inside of my head, like. Feels like it’s been scooped out with a fucking—one of those things that you use to scoop watermelon into balls—”

“That would be a melon baller, Q.” Eliot shields his eyes and tuts out a charm that draws over his pack of cigarettes. Best to start somewhere, and that somewhere is nicotine. “It’s in the name.” 

“What would I do without you to guide me?” There’s a little smirk in Quentin’s voice, and Eliot finds himself smiling a little even if his brain does in fact feel like it’s been melon-balled. 

“No idea,” Eliot says, lying back and sticking a cigarette between his teeth. He lights it with a snap of his fingers and passes the pack to Quentin, watching out of the corner of his eye as he lights it. A warm thrill runs through him as Quentin takes a drag of the cigarette. He’s got that faraway look, his lips downturned, eyes focused on the far wall of Eliot’s room. Eliot thinks he could watch Quentin like this for hours. 

“You know,” Quentin starts, eyes darting toward Eliot, “we should talk.”

“Oh?” Eliot’s pulse picks up, ticking in his ears. Eliot had seldom been the recipient of ‘we should talk,’ given that he keeps things easy with boys. Casual. Noncommittal. All the things that Quentin is not. “Are you breaking up with me?” Eliot goes for an arch intonation, but it comes out—a bit shaky. He punctuates it with a nervous laugh, which just sounds worse—Jesus, when did he become this invested?

Quentin, because he’s Quentin, rolls his eyes in response. “I know that’s, like, a joke. And also a thing we should discuss—”

“I don’t know that we need to—”

Quentin barrels forward. “—but we should talk about—the um. Moon shit.”

Eliot pushes a breath out. “Which moon shit? I feel like there’s a lot of moon shit recently.” 

“Uh. It’s the fucking full moon tonight. And, like, four hours ago, I was begging you to—you know—” Quentin shrugs a little, and the sheet falls away a little to reveal the little divot at his hip. Eliot thinks absently about biting it, the little ridge of bone, the firm warmth of muscle—

“Put my dick in you?” Eliot grins, letting his eyes flicker back to Quentin’s shocked face, his lips parted in a little O. “You’re hardly the first boy in my bed to make such a request. I’m used to it.”

“El, come on,” he says desperately. “I don’t want to fucking talk about this. Like. In the daytime. And I’m not trying to—make demands—of, um. Whatever. But like. I do want, to um. You know. But—it’s also like. The magic wants that and—I don’t know if you can feel it—but I sure as fuck can.” Quentin’s cheeks have gone a bright shade of rosy pink, but he’s looking directly at Eliot, like he’s trying to be a bit brave about the whole thing. “And uh. I’d push that until—like, later. You know? I wouldn’t hold you to a 4AM sex promise—”

“Mmm.” Eliot takes a long drag from his cigarette and blows a smoke ring, waving his hand in a simple charm that turns the smoke to look like a rabbit hopping. He keeps his eyes on the little illusion. “You can hold me to my sex promises.” 

“I mean. I think it would be better—for both of us. To wait? For like actual sex. Because it’s so fucking—crazy intense. But I don’t think—I mean, I don’t think the magic is going to let us wait. The curse is all tied up to the moon—and it wants, you know, this specific thing—um. From us.” Quentin looks at him with his heart-twistingly sincere face, the ghost of a blush on his cheeks. 

“You’re saying the moon wants us to fuck.”

“Um. Yep.” He tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“But you don’t want to?” Eliot feels prickles of sweat blooming over his forehead, and he just hopes it doesn’t show. He’s not the type to shy away from talking about sex, and this shouldn’t be any different. “You were begging for it this morning.”

Quentin’s eyes dart away, and he clears his throat, purses his lips. “I mean. Yeah, yeah—I was. And I do want—I mean, it’s complicated? The enchantment is at play, but it’s also like—I want to.”

“So you do want to?”

“I do want that. It’s just a lot—with the full moon and the enchantment. It’s going to be—crazy as fuck. And I’ve been with guys—just, you know. Not. Fully. I’m like—I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

“You mentioned. I do think you’ll catch on,” he says, trying to project the air of being bored with the whole conversation. In reality, his overused dick is already perking up at the idea of having Quentin in just the way he’s wanted him for so long—and his underused brain is shouting at him that nothing about this is the way Eliot wants it. He wants to—take Quentin to dinner beforehand, fucking buy him flowers, make out at the movies and do all the things Eliot never wanted before but wants so desperately with Q. “So—we’re planning on this—full moon fucking?”

“Yeah. I think that’s what the enchantment is going to demand, you know? So I think we—like—plan on it. So we’re taking that piece of control back. From the curse. From Marina. And we can just—feel good about it. Positive, you know?”

“I feel very positive about it,” Eliot says lightly. There’s an icy little trickle that he doesn’t often feel, running right at his core, a bit of dread he can’t put a name to. And he doesn’t want to keep examining it. He pushes the feeling aside and flicks his cigarette into the air, vanishing the stub with a flick of his fingers. “I’ll be exactly what you need.”

“I mean, I know that already,” Quentin says, so incredibly sincere. A smile plays at the corners of his lips, and he pushes up to kiss Eliot. It catches Eliot off guard, and he sighs into Quentin’s mouth, his hand hovering just over his shoulder. It’s over too quick—Eliot would kiss him all day, he thinks. But Quentin pulls away, eyes still shining. “I’m gonna shower. And I still do, like. Want to take you to lunch.”

Eliot can—maybe for once—let himself enjoy this. Regardless of magical entanglements, there’s a boy he doesn’t hate wanting to take him to lunch. For now, maybe, he can just let that be one good, simple thing.

~~***~~

Quentin is so deliciously fucking cute it almost doesn’t matter that they’re at a gas station in Hudson, New York. Granted, it’s an old gas station that was converted into a cafe, and the sandwiches are—honestly, incredible _._

It’s just not where he would have chosen to take Quentin on a date. If Eliot had allowed himself to think about it—and he hadn’t, really, hence the, in hindsight, poorly planned magician adventure that was most definitely _not_ a date—he would have wanted to take Quentin somewhere maybe not up to Eliot’s white-tablecloth, _pardon-my-reach_ standards, but perhaps to a farm-to-table gastropub in Brooklyn with a wide selection of craft beers and a menu heavily featuring bacon and grilled seasonal vegetables. That’s the kind of place he would have liked to take Quentin, if Eliot had been thinking about that at any particular time. Which he hadn’t—well, maybe once or twice. Anyway. It’s not like he had the place picked. Well. He had a vague list of approximately five restaurants, and none of them serve lunch on weekdays. That’s as much thinking as he’d done, really.

Anyway. Eliot might not have _all_ the specifics planned out about how he’d woo Quentin into bed, but the plan wouldn’t have featured a diner with an actual soda fountain. It’s just not his style, and he can’t shake the feeling that he’s—doing something wrong. Fucking it up—whatever _it_ is—before it’s even really started. Leftover feelings from the conversation this morning. He’s had a spell of intense emotions recently; he figures it’ll probably pass.

For his part, Quentin’s been chatting away about his classes and the magic system in some fantasy novel about a Nigerian warrior princess magician—or he’s not sure if the princess is the warrior or if her friend is. It might be her friend who’s the princess and the other who’s the warrior magician. His mind keeps failing to register the actual content of the conversation because—

—Quentin has a salted caramel pretzel milkshake, which means—he’s sipping it through a straw, and his pink lips are moving ever so slightly, the muscles in his face tensing and releasing, brows furrowed in concentration. Eliot’s dick, which should be thoroughly spent after he came down Quentin’s throat twice in the past twelve hours, _twitches_ as he watches Quentin’s cheeks hollow. 

_Give it a fucking rest_ , Eliot thinks, directing his brainwaves at his dick. _You need to calm the actual fuck down._ _You’re going to fall off if you don’t take a break._

But now, Quentin is picking the tomatoes out of his Italian hoagie and shoving the cylindrical bun in his mouth, pieces of lettuce falling onto his plate. It should be gross—or at the very least, _distasteful_ —that Quentin can’t seem to eat like a normal human, his mouth more at war with the food than actually welcoming it as nourishment. Like—Margo, for instance—Eliot cherishes her, worships the ground she walks upon—but when she gets weird with a pile of Cheetos or peels off the crusty corners of Josh’s brownies, Eliot actually has to physically leave the room to rid himself of the disconcerted feeling that blooms in his thoracic spine as Margo begins to _chew_. 

But Quentin— _Jesus Christ_ , he just wants to look at Quentin’s face. Commit his laugh lines and his squinty eyes and his _smile_ , the _real_ smile with actual teeth, to memory.

“... and you know—I told her I just—couldn’t come to the study session. So.” Quentin shrugs.

Quentin’s been talking about— _something_ , he thinks. He’s moved on from the book, and he’s talking about his classes. Something about healing because he has an exam this evening, which is part of the reason they’re in a diner with red pleather booths and not at the French bistro in Soho that Eliot favors for first dates. Usually those were also last dates, though, and this feels—this is _different_. 

Even before the curse, Eliot had liked Quentin, had wanted Quentin to like him. Normally, Eliot didn’t particularly care if his boys _liked_ him, like _personally_. He just needed them to like his dick. A pretty mouth or a non-annoying personality—those were just bonuses, as far as Eliot was concerned, and thus didn’t factor into his checklist. Really, he only looked for a) not clingy, and b) enthusiastic about fucking. Quentin was… more than that. A lot more. And Eliot had just about figured that out when he took Quentin into the city and he should have figured it out before that—

—because Eliot doesn’t have many friends, not in a real way. Margo is the only one. The rest of his friends are—Quentin’s friends, really. They just put up with Eliot, though Kady seems to actually like him because he can cook, and he likes her because she’s got a fucked up relationship with magic—and her girlfriend does, too—or maybe Alice is Margo’s girlfriend, or maybe they’re all fucking; he can’t be expected to keep track of who’s fucking whomst. Either way. He likes them, but they’re not his people. Quentin is his people—whether Eliot likes it or not, he _is_ —and Quentin also has him out on a _date_ , an actual date—Quentin had called it a date _more than once_ —

“El, are you okay?” 

“Hm?” When he looks over at Quentin, magic crackles between them like static electricity, crinkling at the tips of his fingers, popping in his chest. His heart rate ticks up—and Quentin must not be affected because he’s just looking at Eliot with that little furrow between his brows that Eliot has the impulse to _lick_. He just wants to make sweet fucking love to Quentin’s eyebrows; they’re just, like, _ideal_ for his very pretty face and his very square jaw with his delightful peppering of stubble. 

Quentin tucks his hair behind his ear, and Eliot— _shivers_ , swallowing around the knot in his throat, focusing far too closely on Quentin’s deep brown eyes, little bursts of gold at the center—

“You look pale. Should we—we can get take out boxes and eat the back at the Cottage. I think you might need—do you want some of my milkshake? You haven’t eaten any of your sandwich.” 

“I—I’m fine. Just—”

Eliot hasn’t had a full night of sleep in maybe ten days. There’s no sleeping, only his dick getting hard. 

Quentin is already pushing his milkshake toward Eliot, and Eliot reaches out to stop him, fingers wrapping around the cool glass and brushing against the back of Quentin’s hand. And Quentin—Quentin _does_ feel that. Bright pink blooms over Quentin’s cheeks, and he looks for a moment so shocked that he might snatch his hand away but, instead—

Quentin pushes out a breath and takes Eliot’s hand in his, threading their fingers together. “Eliot.”

“Um. Yes?” Eliot is hunched forward in their diner booth, his embroidered shirtsleeves perilously close to the garlic aioli that came with his turkey club. Quentin’s thumb sweeps over the back of his hand, sending sparks up the length of his arm. His mouth is suddenly so dry that the insides of his cheeks are sticking to his teeth. Sweat blooms over the back of his neck, the collar of his bespoke jade green button down clinging uncomfortably to his skin.

“Shit’s, like, so weird right now.” He squeezes Eliot’s hand. “Like. None of this is fucking normal. Right?”

“Right, no,” Eliot echoes. “Shit is very fucked.”

“And, um. I mean. This is like. An unconventional way to start, like—whatever. I mean, whatever this is. With us. But I don’t—I don’t, like— Like it’s shitty that we’re under a curse that will literally—” Quentin moves his other hand in a quick series of tuts against the chipped orange-red surface of the table, and a silencing ward falls over their booth, the air around them shivering for an instant before the ambient noise in the restaurant dims to a muffled hum. “—like, literally kill us. It fucking sucks. And we’re going to fix it. But I don’t regret it. Like. I don’t regret being here with you right now. And I don’t regret kissing you—or waking up next to you this morning.”

Quentin looks so genuine, so expectant, his face an open book, and the page Eliot’s viewing is hornily emotional—Q’s eyes wide, mouth slightly open, the ridges of his cheeks pink, his eyebrows drawn into a soft arc. 

“I’m—” Eliot starts, clearing his throat, slipping into a distressed half-choke, half-laugh that makes Q’s eyebrows draw even closer together. “I like you a lot, Q.” 

What the _fuck_? What the fuck is he saying? He pushes out a sharp breath and squeezes Quentin’s hand because apparently, the bond has knocked a screw loose in his head and he’s just—saying whatever the fuck pops into his head because his dick is—obsessed with Quentin’s mouth, or whatever. (And Quentin’s hands—the way he tuts, like he’s pulling magic from the air, every movement so purposeful—like he’s determined to make magic bend to his will. Eliot is okay; he’s _fine_.)

God, he’s never found someone doing magic _sexy_ , and yet—the curse must be fucking with him because he can’t get the precise tuts of the silencing ward out of his head. Quentin is just—so fucking cute about everything he does, even when he’s being an absolute and total bitch about—whatever the fuck— _everything_ —which he very often is. 

“I, um. I like you, too,” Quentin says, and his eyebrows go even softer, the corner of his mouth drawing up into a smile. There’s a little comma-shaped dimple in his cheek, laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. “A lot, actually.” He runs his thumb over the back of Eliot’s hand, his smile deepening.

“I wouldn’t want this to be—” He gestures to the restaurant and Quentin’s caramel pretzel milkshake. “—I wouldn’t want any of this—” Eliot sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t be taking you to a diner in the middle of the day.”

“I mean, I like it. But—yeah, I get it. I guess. Frankly, I’m just—” Quentin shrugs, and his hand twitches a little. The milkshake sweats between them, a pool of condensation collecting at its base. “—um, I’m just like. Baffled. That you would want to—go anywhere with me. And I’m pretty sure you’re indulging me because you, like, literally can’t be with anyone else until the moon is waning? Or it would be—difficult. And I’m—”

Eliot’s chest crunches in on itself. “Q—”

“—convenient.”

Eliot laughs sharply. “You’re absolutely not. Convenient. At all.”

Quentin frowns at him. “You’re saying I’m inconvenient?”

“Absolutely, sweetheart. But you’re charming—”

“Literally no one has ever called me that.”

“—and you are very pretty. You give head like a man possessed. And I’m a thousand percent sure you’ll be a fantastic lay.”

Quentin grins, rolling his eyes. “So that’s what I am? I should—I should take it as a compliment, I guess. That I look pretty and seem like I’d be a good lay—I’m honestly a little patchy at sex—”

“I beg to differ.” Eliot blinks, his eyes bleary, his head muddled with exhaustion. “You’re marvelous, darling.” He can keep it all together, get through this lunch and—if they make it through tonight, Eliot’s going to take Quentin to that bistro at the new moon. There’s a clawing, furry thing sitting at Eliot’s core, pushing from his belly and expanding into his chest. It feels like—nerves, maybe. But Eliot doesn’t get nervous about boys—even if Q is an exception, he just doesn’t do this. 

Eliot clears his throat and pulls himself together, more or less—until he sees that Quentin is flagging down the waitress, surreptitiously taking down the sound ward, and asking the woman for a Coke. He presses himself to the side of the booth, his head fuzzed out and pounding in random spurts. “And another milkshake. The banana milkshake.”

Eliot raises an eyebrow. “Hungry today, Q?”

“I’m done,” he says. He reaches across the table and slips Eliot’s hand in his. “But you barely touched your sandwich. You haven’t been eating enough.” Quentin’s eyes are huge and focused on him, deep brown and long lashed and lovely. “I just think you ought to get some calories. You like bananas. Do you like milkshakes?”

“Everyone likes milkshakes, Q.” He doesn’t mean to sound dismissive, but he hears it in his voice. He squeezes Quentin’s hand and has an almost out-of-body experience when he realizes that he’s in a diner in broad daylight holding hands with a boy who—well, he might as well be Eliot’s boyfriend. He ordered a Coke and a milkshake for Eliot to make him feel better. Eliot can’t actually remember the last time someone took care of him, did something simple and small to make his day a bit better. Warmth unfurls in his chest at the thought. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be—a dick.”

“You must be really tired,” Quentin says. “Like, for real, if you’re admitting to being a dick.”

“Mmm,” Eliot says with a smirk. “You caught me. I do think I may be somewhat delirious. There’s your explanation.”

The waitress comes by and puts the banana milkshake and coke in front of Quentin, who lets go of his hand and pushes the milkshake to Eliot. “I know Coke isn’t great for you, but it’s—my dad gave it to me whenever I was home sick. I dunno, that’s kinda silly—” Blushing now, Quentin ducks his head and tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. 

Eliot catches his eye and smiles. The only thing he knows about Quentin’s dad is that he’s divorced—and that, just before the adventure to the city where Eliot had gotten them both cursed, he’d been diagnosed with brain cancer. “It’s not silly,” Eliot says, his voice firm. “I appreciate it.”

“Good. It, uh—it always made me feel better. The sugar or something.” Quentin smiles, eyes shining, his gaze so full of affection that it makes Eliot want to sink down into the floor. 

“You should tell me about your dad,” Eliot says. He listens while he drinks his milkshake, tired but content. That’s the word for moments like these, he thinks. And he watches Quentin as he talks, following the small movements of his mouth and hands as he describes something much closer to a family than Eliot’s known. 

~~***~~

It’s almost two by the time they get back to the cottage. Eliot’s given up on _not_ touching Quentin because it’s literally all he wants to do. The inhibitions he usually carries around in states of wakeful sobriety have left the building. He’s not sure how much of that has to do with the actual enchantment, and how much of it is Quentin’s soft hair and his sweet lips and the turn of his stubbled jaw.

The first floor is empty save Kady and Alice curled up into the reading nook, and Eliot’s reserves are flagging. It’s not like he has class on Fridays—he thinks he doesn’t, anyway. None that he’s actually attended. There’s nothing he _needs_ to be doing, so he could easily make an afternoon out of gathering Quentin into his arms and—Q is probably really tired of him. And they both need sleep before tonight. He shouldn’t—shouldn’t bother Quentin with all of that. They need time to themselves. He thinks. That’s a thing people do. 

“Hey, you look like you’re about to fall down,” Quentin says. Eliot has an arm slung around Quentin’s neck, and he’s leaning a significant amount of his body weight onto Quentin’s lean frame.

“‘M just tired.”

“We should go lie down, okay?”

“I’m sorry, Q. I really can’t get it up right now—”

Alice gives them a little smile and Eliot waves at her rather grandly. She may be fucking Regina George—and Janis Ian, it looks like since his head can only think in _Mean Girls_ right now—but there’s an absurd, possessive swell inside his chest at the thought—Quentin is his. 

He’d known about Quentin’s little crush on Alice, and well, he’d won this round, hadn’t he? It’s a bit of a ridiculous thought considering that Alice has—is he reading this right?—two girlfriends. He shoos it from his mind and sinks into the warmth Quentin’s hand touching his arm, a bloom of light and warmth beneath his skin. It’s during the day, and the touch is—as much as anything can be between them now—platonic, but the magic still hums between them, and touching Quentin, it’s like sinking into a warm bed. God, a bed sounds _nice_. Quentin’s talking about something again—

“—El, you’re really out of it. Let’s get you to bed, okay?” 

Eliot nods, and it occurs to him as he leans into Quentin’s side, that exhaustion is part of what makes the enchantment so effective. The bond allows them so little sleep during this phase of the moon that they’re both delirious. They stumble up the stairs, and Quentin deposits Eliot on his bed. 

“Thank you, Q—mm, you’re my hero.” He smiles and flops back on the bed, still wearing his date outfit. Still, he closes his eyes—he doesn’t have enough life left in him to actually get undressed. “But I can’t fuck you right now.”

He hears an exasperated laugh, and Quentin’s voice drifts into his consciousness, like it’s coming from somewhere very far away. “—said I don’t need you to get your dick hard, Eliot. Like, that’s going to fucking, like, _have to_ happen tonight, okay? Let’s just take a nap. You need sleep.”

“Nap sounds nice. I know you want some time alone—”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Quentin says, apparently tripping over something next to Eliot’s bed. “Sorry. Just. I’m getting in bed, too. And you can’t kick me out or—I dunno. I guess you can. It’s your room. But don’t.” 

Sounds of bumping and shuffling fill Eliot’s ears, and he lifts himself up on his elbows to see Quentin kicking off his shoes and taking off his shirt—and honestly, Q’s body is _devastating_. Lean but muscled and so broad across the shoulders. Eliot’s heart rate quickens, even in his non-horny, extremely tired state. That’s the entire thing about Quentin, he thinks groggily. He wants to hold Quentin and take care of him, but Eliot also wants his strength: his dexterous hands, the breadth and weight of his body covering Eliot, Quentin’s masculinity and his fragility, all wrapped up in Eliot. 

Eliot slips out of his date outfit as gracefully as he can, sending his clothes floating over to his closet and hanging them with a set of a few practiced tuts, while Quentin is still tripping around next to the bed, apparently halfway stuck in his jeans. 

“I thought you had to study for your exam,” Eliot says, bleary eyed. There’s a pain in his temple now that he’s half-sitting, so he lies back, pressing back into his pillow. “That’s why we went out to lunch so early.”

“I mean. I’ve studied so much my eyes are sore. I don’t know if I can fit any more information in my brain. So. What I really fucking need is some sleep. Because I have a feeling that tonight—” Quentin shrugs and pushes his hair back from his face, his eyes going a little wide when he sees that Eliot is shirtless and tucked back into bed, like he missed it happening entirely. “—it’ll be, um. Uh—”

“Yeah, it’ll be—” Eliot swallows, his chest burning with—maybe the soy-banana milkshake, but also maybe the whole concept of _tonight_. Last night had been worse than the night before, an almost exponential increase in arousal and confusion, with Eliot coming down Quentin’s throat in the span of—maybe three minutes—it had been blindingly hot and frantic and consuming, his capacity for rational thought replaced with lust. He’s all too aware that tonight will be— “—it’ll be _fine_. C’mere.” 

Quentin more falls in bed than gets into it, crawling over to Eliot and immediately curling into his side, yawning as Eliot gathers him into his arms. 

The magic is gentle between them—still present, but a low hum instead of a punishing current. When Quentin tucks his head against Eliot’s chest, breath hot against his neck, an eddy of calm rises in his core, his body and mind releasing the tight, knotted thing composed of guilt and longing and the devastating idea that he had willed this thing with Quentin into being, that he’d somehow wished for this curse, that it’s his fault that they’d both wound up here, inextricably bound and headed for a collision course of punishment and pain. 

Here, with Quentin nodding off in his arms, it’s easier to believe that, if not wholly innocent—he had been the one to bring Quentin into the lion’s den of Marina’s coven—he’s at least not complicit in creating the horror of the bonding enchantment. He’d never meant for them to be in this position, but they are, and Quentin is leaning into the tangled connection between them, so Eliot can tentatively enjoy this, these quiet moments, before whatever comes next. And what comes next may well be a freight train headed for a cliff, but the cars are filled with fireworks and champagne and quiet moments like these where the bond feels less like a curse and more like genuine connection.

He stares at the ceiling for long minutes, Quentin snoring softly against his chest, the magic fizzing beneath his skin, subtle and low with the sunlight spilling over his bed. It’s a false sense of security because he knows that tonight will be—well, he doesn’t know what tonight will be, that’s the thing. All is calm now, and they’ve had the equivalent of a normal day. For now, he lets himself drift away, Quentin’s warm body pressed to his.


	4. so i take my time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the full moon arrives. y'all know what that means! that's right! these boys are going to fuck. and have feelings. just so many feelings. warning for purple prose and mention of eliot's history as a kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh shit! i can’t forget to thank my beta, rubick, and my cheerreaders, theaudity and ambiguouspenny. thanks to all those who’ve listened to my late night smut ramblings. i love you, fandom friends.

Quentin

It’s four in the afternoon when Quentin comes to. Which, of course, means he’s going to be late to his fucking exam.

Quentin extracts himself from Eliot without waking him—he’d slept wrapped entirely around Quentin like a sloth around a particularly appealing branch. He’s never been anyone’s favorite branch, and he doesn’t expect to be Eliot’s favorite anything for long. It’s—well, Julia would tell him, not that Julia’s around to tell him anything—but she’d say if a boy says he likes you on a date, he probably actually likes you—but Quentin knows the gnarled root of this thing is monumentally fucked up. He knows he’d choose Eliot in any time, in any world; it’s just hard to make himself believe that Eliot would have chosen him.

Yeah—there’s, like, sexual attraction. And there’s the curse. He keeps reminding himself, convincing himself that this could _be_ something, but midway through each day, his brain flops back to thinking that Eliot acts like he wants Quentin because there’s literally no other option. If they don’t fuck, they might explode in a shower of dicks. So it feels like—it _feels like_ —Eliot must be tolerating him.

But Margo had said—it doesn’t matter what Margo said. Quentin can look at this clearly and see the real shape of things; even if it’s possible Eliot does want something beyond friendship and, like, surviving the curse, it won’t last long. Things never last long with Quentin. 

“Nope,” Quentin mutters as he pulls on his clothes, nearly stumbling over his shoes, “not fucking now. Focus.” He has a healing exam to get to—and less than ten minutes to get there before he’s late. If he’s expelled for, like, fucking up his exams—would they have to expel Eliot, too? Would they send them off with their memories wiped, confused, inextricably bound to just—fuck each other forever? _God_. What the _fuck_? Magic is amazing. But Brakebills is the fucking _worst_.

Eliot stretches and yawns, his arm reaching out to the space where Quentin was sleeping. His eyes blink open, his face soft like it hardly ever is. “Hey, baby, you going?”

Quentin’s heart snaps in his chest; he stands at the foot of Eliot’s bed, watching as Eliot lifts up on one elbow, sheet falling away to reveal the—wholly tempting—expanse of his chest. “Yeah. Uh. I’ll be back. Later.”

Eliot scrubs one hand over his face and drags his fingers through his curls, leaving them a little wilder than they were before. There’s something ethereal about Eliot when he wakes, like he could have appeared from the depths of the forest, a line of flowers blooming along the path behind him. “Mmm, good,” he says, flopping back into his ocean of pillows, stretched out, long and regal. “See you at the full moon.”

“Ah, yeah. I’ve gotta—” Quentin’s stomach flips— _the full moon, sex during the full moon, sex_ with Eliot _during the full moon_ —and he ducks his head, in part to hide his rising blush, in part to avoid looking at Eliot full on. Quentin gives him a little wave, and Eliot nods and—Quentin is left wondering if this is what it’s like to have a boyfriend. Probably not quite. Since no one in the history of humanity has ever been with a man so devastating. Maybe that’s dramatic, but that’s the going state of things in Quentin’s brain. Like, _always._

Quentin gallops down the stairs and flings himself out the door, hurrying across the Sea to the low brick building next to the infirmary where he’s been learning to take vitals magically (his skill there is total fucking shit) and knit together minor wounds (which he has an actual knack for, almost unbelievably). It’s 4:17 when he opens the door to the healing lecture hall.

“Mr. Coldwater, so good of you to join us,” Professor Park says, gesturing to the line of nine students against the far wall in the healing lecture hall. 

Quentin knits his brows and glances at his watch—he’s not even two minutes—well, three now—late but—Park doesn’t fuck around with lates or absences. She’s docked Quentin’s grade before because he’d fallen asleep in class after being up all night with Eliot. God. He’d told her that he was under a life-or-death style curse, and she told him she gave absolutely zero fucks; his grade was still docked. 

_Magicians in the real world get cursed all the time—and they still need to show up to their jobs_ , she’d said, giving him a death stare over the rim of her glasses. Quentin was starting to think being a magician wasn’t all that glamorous.

“Uh, sorry.” He stumbles over to the wall and gets in line with the other students, glancing at his watch and waiting his turn for the first part of the exam. Sunset is at 6:45 here in the bizarre microclimate of Brakebills, and the last exam in healing had only taken two hours—so he’s fine. It takes a while after sundown for the curse to really set in, he reassures himself. Though the full moon is an unknown—after sundown, literally anything could happen. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Sweat blooms in the center of his palms, and he wipes his hands on his jeans, pulse ticking up just beneath his skin.

“Looks like you’ll be going last today, Mr. Coldwater. Your time, your choice—”

He swallows the “but” that sits on his lips. Park won’t hear it, and his grade will probably suffer if he says _anything_. It’ll be just fine. He’ll take his exam, and he’ll get back to Eliot and—they’ll fuck. Oh, Jesus Christ—they’re going to fuck. Eliot’s going to fuck him with his giant dick. Quentin’s been thinking about getting it inside him since he first laid eyes on Eliot, and he’s going to get it tonight—and then maybe, for like a while, until the curse breaker comes or whatever, Quentin will get it whenever he wants. Or whenever the curse wants him to want it. He’s confused. But—his desire for Eliot _is_ a constant in his disaster-related confusion. He might not know which way is up, but Eliot’s dick is his true north.

Quentin clenches his fists; sweat blooms over his forehead. He has to focus. No thinking about Eliot’s cock or he’s never gonna get outta—

“Mr. Coldwater—are you perfectly well?” Professor Park is looking at him with interest; he wonders if she’s taking, like—a professional interest, or if it’s just old-fashioned schadenfreude, if humiliating him in front of the entire class is just part of what she does for kicks. 

“I’m totally fine—thanks.” Kady, the only other Physical Kid in the bunch looks at him with something suspiciously like concern. He must really look like shit if she’s taken an interest, too.

Professor Park nods. “Well then—barring Mr. Coldwater looking like he’s on the verge of passing out, it seems like we’re all ready to begin—”

The exam is what it is—a string of nervous first years, knitting together wounds on eerily realistic synthetic limbs in front of the entire class. Or, fuck, Quentin really hopes those limbs are synthetic. The goddamn place looks like a medical school in Victorian England, legs and hands all over the place. Yeah, he’s going with—this shit is factory-made, and the same knitting spells work on human flesh and whatever the fuck these things are made of.

Head down. Knit limbs.

Quentin passes the mending portion easily—he could mend skin and viscera with his eyes closed, which is—he’ll have to tell Julia about that. The thought hits him— _again_ —like a knife to the chest—burning cold, an icy splinter lodged in his heart, in his magic. He can’t tell Julia jackshit—not about the curse or about Eliot or about the very minor successes he’s had with magic. He’s composed a text to her about twenty different times in the past two weeks. 

_Hey, just to let you know, I’m alive. The curse is fucked but we’re okay. I guess I should thank you for giving me a boyfriend. Lol. I don’t blame you for the curse. Brakebills sorta sucks. We should just start our own coven. I wonder what your discipline would be. Maybe knowledge? You’ve always been smarter than I am._

_I miss you and I’m a dick. I’m sorry._

He’d almost sent that one. Pathetically, he’d imagined her smiling when she got it. When he came out their sophomore year in college, she’d tried to set him up with a few different lacrosse bros that James hung with, but nothing had ever stuck, mostly because he was in love with Julia. He’s not anymore, he doesn’t think. It’ll always be a piece of him, the kind of love he held for her, but it seems distant now, a faraway memory. When he looks back at what he felt for Jules, it seems like the seeds of something not fully developed. 

He thinks sometimes that what he feels for Eliot is deeper, more intricate, something more mature. But he banishes the thought because—well, good things tend to explode directly in Quentin’s face. And this whole thing with Eliot—it’s bound to end in a fucked up blaze of glory. It’s not like their relationship—or whatever—started in a healthy place. It’s not _in_ a healthy place. How can they—how can Quentin assume—God, he’s so stupid. He’s been fooling himself to do this dating bullshit—

“Mr. Coldwater, we’re moving onto the diagnostic portion of the exam now. Not sure if you heard me from whatever astral plane you projected yourself into.”

“Ah, yeah. Got it.” He gives Professor Park a little salute, which makes her scowl deepen. “I’m—on board.”

“Good to know. Now, let’s continue—”

It’s 6:15 by the time Professor Park gets to the end of the line. Kady is two spots ahead of Quentin, and he’s able to switch places with the illusion student just in front of him. When Professor Park spots him standing next to Kady, about to ask if she’ll let him go before her, she scowls in his direction. “Mr. Coldwater, you got to the exam last. And now you’re trying to push not one but two classmates to the back of the line?”

“It’s no sweat,” Kady says, nodding at Quentin. “He can have my spot so his dick doesn’t fall off or whatever.”

“Uh, thanks. That’s not what the enchantment does—it’s more of a, uh—” Kady gives him a meaningful look, and he shuts his mouth.

“Well, I’m afraid that’s not up to you, Ms. Orloff-Diaz.”

“You know he’s cursed, right? And it’s the full moon. I try to pay as little attention as I can to Quentin and his boyfriend—but, come on. But he needs to get out of here by the time it’s dark.”

“All the more reason to finish up in the proper order. Mr. Coldwater, to the back of the line.”

Sweat prickles over Quentin’s forehead, his heart rising in his throat. He has to get back to Eliot. Nodding, he goes to the back of the line, biting his lip as he watches Kady go to the front of the room and do a diagnostic spell that reveals one of the volunteers suffers from chronic athlete’s foot. It takes about fifteen minutes for her to get through the two others Park asks her to perform. 

By the time the illusion student—Guy? Gary?—steps up to the front of the room, it’s 6:32, and Quentin’s heart is racing. A phantom pain takes up residence behind his left eyebrow, like the bud of a migraine. His vision is the slightest bit wavy, but when he closes his left eye, it’s more or less normal. He’s pretty sure he can push it until a few minutes after dark, but it’ll be a close thing. If he fucking passes out, he doubts Park will let him retake the exam. He’s gotta power through. 

“Fucking Brakebills bullshit,” Kady whispers on the way out. Just as Guy/Gary starts casting the scanning spell, she slips a crystal into his hand. “This should help you get through the exam, but it’ll lose effectiveness after the moon starts to rise. Get the hell out of here by 7:15 no matter what Park says. Marina doesn’t fuck around with curses. And that moon shit is no joke.”

“Thank you,” he whispers, swallowing hard, a lump of fear sitting in his chest. “Really. I owe you one.”

“Don’t mention it.” She gives him a half-smile, which is sweet, really. As sweet as Kady gets. God, this is literally the only conversation they’ve had that’s lasted beyond a few syllables. He’s a terrible housemate, but in his defense, Kady is fucking terrifying, and Eliot is taking up most of his free time.

Kady was quick and efficient with her spells, and she’s right about the charm working past sundown—which isn’t really surprising, given that she’s a far better magician than he’ll ever be, and she just, like, knows this shit, coming from a magical family. The sweat on his shirt has to be visible by the time Park calls his name, and there’s a thread of pain that’s moved from behind his eye, hovering now just behind his sternum. It’s a crackling little twist of an ache, like the very beginning of ice forming along a windshield, the pattern of it not readable yet. 

“Mr. Coldwater—you’ll be diagnosing our volunteer. Patient has presented with a complaint about a rash on the upper thigh—”

Quentin nods, focusing in on Professor Park’s mouth, watching her lips form the words. He tries to tuck the information away in the unaffected parts of his mind, tries to analyze it, to connect it to the set of spells he knows he’ll have to try to make this work. 

“—I said—it’s time to begin, Mr. Coldwater.”

 _Mr. Coldwater is my father’s name_ , he thinks. He bites down on a smile. God, he feels like he’s smoked half of one of Josh’s magic joints, his head full of fuzzy fluff, a counterpoint to the ripples of pain that zing beneath his skin.

“Uh. Okay.” He closes his eyes to get his bearings. “So, this will call for the—um, the diagnostic spell focused on the skin, and well, before that, a spell to rule out any internal maladies or fevers that might have caused a rash. I’d follow that up with a check for heavy metals or mold allergies if neither of those yields a result.”

“Remember to breathe. Your patient doesn’t want you passing out in front of them while reciting a battery of healing enchantments.”

“Uh. Sorry.” He glances at the volunteer patient—a nature kid from third year, he thinks—they smile at him encouragingly. Park is so fucking shitty to him, but she’s fucking shitty to everyone so—

He raises his hands, crooking his index fingers over his thumbs, tucking his pinkies, pulling on the ambient magic in the healing lab. It doesn’t quite catch, but that’s fine—sometimes it just doesn’t cooperate—so he begins the incantation, reciting the Estonian, followed by the bits of Ancient Greek that seal the diagnostic spell. And—it doesn’t catch. Again. He can feel the magic around him, but it’s not flowing through his hands, and he can’t feel it in his mind. The only thing he can feel is the sickly thread of magic, gathering strength, reaching out and searching for _Eliot_.

Because of course it is. Of course it fucking is. Why can’t one thing in Quentin’s life just be simple? Like—he has to be attached at the dick to his—whatever, he doesn’t know what Eliot is—best friend or not-quite-boyfriend—or he won’t be able to use his magic or he’ll, like, die. He guesses. They haven’t been eager to test the parameters of the curse. So. The shit with his magic—a whole ass exciting new surprise.

The healing lab is now empty save for Quentin, Professor Park, and the nature student, who seems pleasant—but they don’t know Quentin’s situation. The curse, the pain. The way his magic is tied to it. There’s no one to defend him.

“Again,” Professor Park says.

Quentin arranges his hands, muttering _please please please_ , trying to pluck at the magic in the air, touching it, gentle and slow, like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. He takes a deep breath, pushing it out and focusing on—Eliot. The green in Eliot’s eyes when they were at lunch, the soft smile playing at his lips when Quentin told him about reading the Fillory books to his dad after he’d had cataract surgery. A little well of calm bubbles up in his chest and Quentin pulls at it, his magic, the thing within him that makes him the type of different he always wanted to be. He reaches out with his mind, with his fingers, letting the current flow—it catches like a prickly burr against fabric and he pulls, muttering the enchantment again, pouring his energy into it, the air around him lighting up, the air simmering with possibility. A moment before it snaps out, the answer hits Quentin’s mind. 

“Oh—thank _fuck_ ,” he says. “It’s ah—ah—mm—I’m guessing it’s not really that but it’s like—whatever thing—”

“Out with it,” Park says. 

“It’s _shingles_. Fucking shingles.” Quentin shakes out his hands, cramps rolling through his arms and shoulders from the effort. The threads of magic inside pull away, power moving back to his center, a thick, angry knot in the center of his chest. He knows—knows it clearly and completely—that was the last spell he’ll be able to do before—

“Oh, _fuck_.” Something snaps inside Quentin’s mind, and he feels the wetness on his upper lip, pain snapping through his synapses, piercing behind his eyes. When he wipes his hand over his upper lip, there’s bright red on his fingers, a steady trickle now. The crystal—whatever the fuck it is—has dulled the pain in his chest, but it sits within him, waiting like the dull thudding tick of—he remembers the waiting room at the Midtown Mental Health of Clinic, there was a clock that sounded like that, but it’s not outside him; it’s scrawled inside of him, a mad scramble of cursive written on his sternum, written on the beating of his heart, struggling to—

Quentin sways, the severe face of Lydia Park quivering before him as he stumbles and falls against one of the exam tables, whacking a synthetic arm to the floor.

“I’ll have you know those are living cadaver pieces, Quentin. They’re not cheap.”

“Fuck. _Gross_ ,” Quentin mumbles, trying to regain his balance.

Professor Park’s irritated sigh is the last thing he hears before his vision grays out. The next thing he knows, he’s being unceremoniously ushered onto The Sea, the door to the healing lab clicking shut behind him. Quentin can barely see with the curse wreaking havoc in his brain, and he grabs for the railing panting as he tries to think how long it’ll take for him to get the fuck back to the Cottage before he collapses. 

“God, I fucking hate this place.” Kady steps out of the shadows and grabs Quentin’s arm, rough, tugging him along as he leans on her, his brain passing in and out of a kind of semi-consciousness. “Your boyfriend sent me back to get you.”

“He’s not my—”

“Whatever, don’t wanna hear it. Listen, he’s not doing okay. I don’t have another charm, so Margo and I cast a spell that should at least stop him from passing out. So we gotta be quick. Step up. Come on. That’s it.”

Quentin groans, leaning heavily against Kady’s side as she drags him across the grass. “Thank you.”

“It’s fine.”

“I mean, really—you didn’t have to—”

“I said it’s _fine_. We don’t need to have a whole goddamn discussion.”

The night air is fresh and cool against his skin, wetness seeping into the seams of his shoes from the dampness of the grass. He shivers, teeth chattering even though it can’t be much below sixty degrees. 

“Really, thank you though,” Quentin says, slurring his words together. “I’m—I mean—” Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, and he lets out a sob as Kady drags him up the steps of the Cottage. “It’s just so nice of you—I might have just—fucking died on the ground.”

“Holy Christ, fucking contain yourself. I just don’t want to see either of you idiots dead. Got it? Don’t get all Dr. Phil about it.”

“Yeah, sorry.” 

“Don’t mention it.” Kady shoves him in the door, and he tumbles through, launched straight into the cottage. 

Margo is standing in front of him, hands on her hips. “I hate it here,” she says. “You look like a fucking mess.” 

“Eliot—he’s—is he—” Quentin starts, but his jaw clamps shut after that, pain radiating through the nerves in his face, down the column of his spine. The words sit inside him as he crumples, hitting the floor. _Is Eliot okay?_

“Oh no you fucking don’t.” Margo yanks him up by the arm, the pressure of her hand sending searing pain down his arm. “Your boy is out of commission. And I don’t have the chops to float you the fuck upstairs.” Margo nods in Kady’s direction. “Come the fuck on. We can get him to the third floor.” 

Quentin can almost feel Kady rolling her eyes. “Fine. I’m wiping my hands of this disaster. They better have shit figured out by the next full moon.”

“Not their fault Marina is a skank-ass bitch.”

Quentin vaguely feels Kady taking one arm, Margo the other, as they more or less shove him up the stairs. He feels himself vaguely almost floating—his brain clicks back into the intense, visceral memory of believing he could fly as a child, closing his eyes and imagining sailing up the stairs in his house in Montclair—they must have done a spell to make him lighter since they can’t float him like Eliot could. Their voices float around him like the muffled chirping of birds, dimmed by the rustle of wind. 

He barely registers being pushed across the threshold of Eliot’s doorway. It’s not until he hears Eliot’s voice that the world snaps back into focus. “Q—baby—are you okay?” 

“El—” Quentin stumbles forward, bleary-eyed, and feels Eliot’s arms wrap around him. 

“I’m here—I’m here,” Eliot says, soothing him, burying his fingers in Quentin’s hair, strong arms wrapped around him, broad hand splayed across his back. 

“… think they’re okay?” Quentin hears Kady’s voice, but the sound of it comes to him like it’s filtered through thick layers of cotton, muffled and far away. 

“They’re fine, no thanks to Brakebills,” Margo says. 

Quentin feels himself being lowered to the mattress, a warm washcloth pressed to his face. His body aches, an aching, rhythmic beat that sinks into his bones as Eliot holds him and slips a pillow beneath his head. There’s a pained sound, coming from Eliot he thinks, and Eliot pulls him closer, slipping his knee between Quentin’s legs. He lets out a whine as Eliot’s thigh presses against his cock. A dark swirl of heat builds at the base of Quentin’s spine, ripples expanding outward, heat rising in his hips and along the length of his cock. The gnawing sting of the curse rises alongside the beginnings of pleasure, crawling beneath his skin and rising higher to sit in his chest, tendrils of the enchantment hooking into him, surging again like it had in the healing lab—

—it’s worse now, even with the first threads of desire prickling along the back of his neck. 

“… better get the fuck out of here before this gets real weird.” Margo’s voice, maybe. 

“—need the charm back, Coldwater.”

Quentin feels himself fishing in his pocket, stiff-stinging fingers wrapping around the crystal. He fumbles as he pulls it from his pocket, and he hurls it in the direction of Kady’s voice just as Eliot rolls him to his back and pinning his arms above his head.

“—okay, I’m out. This is more than I need to see,” Kady says.

Margo is—cackling is the best word for it. “I dunno. Mama enjoys a live show. I’m sure El wouldn’t mind if I—”

He hears more laughter and what sounds like Kady pulling Margo into the hallway and down the stairs. The door clicks shut behind them, and there’s a disturbance in the air, the magic of the wards making everything around them shimmer for a moment. It pulls Quentin back to waking, awareness of—

—Eliot’s teeth scraping over his bottom lip, fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt, the chilly wash of Eliot’s magic settling for a moment over his hips as Eliot casts his unbuttoning charm and—Eliot’s free hand shoving Quentin’s jeans down. He only realizes he’s hard when Eliot pulls down his boxers and, moaning breathy in Quentin’s ear, takes his cock in hand and, squeezing, presses his thumb to the base, stroking upward, the simple movement sending relief, nerves coated in a soothing balm. Hunger curls in the pit of his stomach as Eliot strokes him, and he spreads his legs as far as his jeans will allow—

Quentin whimpers, back arching as he thrusts into Eliot’s hand. “Please, I need—”

“What do you need, baby?” Eliot’s voice wavers, a bit unsteady, but his hand moves sure and slow over Quentin’s cock. 

Quentin bites down on a moan, his brain fuzzing out around the edges as the pressure coils tight in his center. The edge of release sits within him—he’s close to spilling over Eliot’s hand—but he’s so empty—wants Eliot inside, wants to know what it feels like to open up for him, take him deep, let himself go as Eliot fucks into him. He’s wanted this for so long, so much longer than the curse. The thought is half-formed when it blooms in his mind—that he’s wanted Eliot as long as he’s known how to want, wanted Eliot before he even knew him, wanted the essential parts of him—Eliot, crackling with power, kind and good beneath all his impeccable layers, a picture of patrician beauty, the hidden pieces tucked away inside—Quentin wants that, too—all the things Eliot shows to no one else. 

“You,” he chokes out. “Need you—you—just you—”

“I’m here.” Eliot kisses him, hard and hungry, before sitting back and tugging off Quentin’s jeans and rucking up his shirt, hot mouth settling over one nipple, teeth tugging as Eliot spreads his legs apart, rough and purposeful.

Quentin’s eyes snap open to see Eliot over him, his clothes still on but his tie loosened, vest rumpled, the length of his cock visible against his fucking khaki pants. He realizes Eliot is dressed like he was the first time Quentin saw him; the Brakebills pins on his vest catch the light. Pupils blown, curls a mess, he looks wild and as beautiful as Quentin’s ever seen him. 

“I’m gonna have you tonight,” Eliot says, pinching one nipple and moving lower to palm his cock. His hand almost covers the whole of it and Quentin likes this, too, feeling small beneath Eliot’s hands. 

There should be something to say to that, something smooth, but Quentin comes up short as he always does in Eliot’s presence. If he opens his mouth, he’ll probably—confess his undying love or something else life-destroying. Instead of anything remotely coherent, though, all Quentin can manage is a strangled noise.

Eliot smiles at that, all confidence and ease, still buttoned up, but Quentin watches his hands quiver when he tucks his thumbs beneath his palms and falls into the cleaning spell. It doesn’t follow that Eliot should be nervous but they’re both in a less than ideal situation, and it wouldn’t be Eliot’s choice—

Eliot shushes him like he can read Quentin’s thoughts, petting over his ribs as the cleaning spell catches inside and a chilly swoop hits his gut. His hips buck up when he feels it, cold and fizzing clean—God, it’s embarrassing how hard he is, how much he wants. There’s a prep spell for stretching open, and Quentin’s used it with his—well, his collection of brightly colored dildos—but instead of moving into the spell, Eliot’s hands are skimming over Quentin’s thighs, and Eliot’s mouth is trailing over his chest, down the length of his torso, sparks rising in the wake of his lips and tongue. 

Quentin shouts when the tip of Eliot’s tongue touches his cock, fingers tangling in Eliot’s curls as he licks a line from head to base and takes Quentin in his mouth, the head of his dick nudging against the back of Eliot’s soft palate, the slick warmth against his tip enough to make him buck up, pushing, rough and hard, to the back of Eliot’s throat—which is slippery-soft, hot and yielding. A glittering rush sweeps from the base of his spine to the nape of his neck, hair standing on end as he— _thrusts_ again, hard, Eliot swallowing around the head of his dick—

“Sorry—I—that’s— _oh_ —” Quentin’s hips arch, toes curling against the silky sheets.

Eliot lets out a low groan—the vibration travels down the length of Quentin’s cock. His eyes roll back in his head as Eliot takes him to the back of his throat again, bringing him to the edge and pulling off, his cock pained and thrumming, thwapping against his low belly. He shudders, breath coming in rough, short pants as a bead of precome gathers at his tip. Eliot pushes one of Quentin’s knees up, shoves a pillow under his hips. 

There’s a twinned heaviness in the cradle of his hips—Eliot’s desire next to his own as he licks down over Quentin’s cock, spreading him open and swiping his tongue over the clench of Quentin’s hole, moaning into him, filthy, as he licks, pressing just inside before drawing back and doing it again, an obscene pattern repeating until Quentin is shaking, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Wisps of pleasure gather in his core, flame licking over his thighs, as Eliot plunges his tongue inside. Quentin’s cock jerks, and he tugs at Eliot’s hair, mindless—it only spurs Eliot on, making him moan louder against Quentin’s hole, working over the taut rim of muscle, making it go slack with pleasure, Quentin’s body trembling. His senses narrow in on the wet sounds of Eliot’s mouth, the liquid pleasure expanding through him, the aching hard line of his dick and the ever-present, now-pleased buzz of the bond as they appease it with their joining.

Muscles tense in Quentin’s hips, as he struggles to keep himself from coming—but Eliot just keeps going, tongue hot and searching, pushed deep against the cleft of his ass—he feels himself fluttering open even as tension twists and builds, precome dripping on his belly as he hangs onto the last thread of resistance. Quentin’s fingers curl in Eliot’s hair, and he tugs hard, which just makes Eliot dive in harder, deeper—

“El,” he rasps, “El—if you keep going—” He pants, eyes scrunched closed, his only focus the soft thrust of Eliot’s tongue. “—I’m gonna—” He pulls Eliot’s hair again and—Eliot keeps on and on, pressing into the clench of him, the sensation of release taking over—he’s aware of Eliot’s own mounting arousal, growing alongside his. Eliot likes it, likes the feeling of Quentin all spread out and helpless before him— “—I’m gonna come if you keep—”

—Quentin’s hips snap up, his cock jumping as Eliot makes a muffled sound of pleasure against his hole. His orgasm hits him like a cloudburst, rushing and inevitable, pleasure spilling through him, body-shaking and toe-curling. Quentin cries out, shuddering and squirming against Eliot’s face, coming in stripes over his belly. Relief blossoms within, slow and sweet as rain receding, tension draining away, fingers tingling and eyes rolling back in his head as Eliot licks him through it, his own wet breathing and his pounding heartbeat echoing in his ears. 

His consciousness drifts back in pieces, awareness falling around him in gentle waves—Eliot kissing the base of his cock, his moan when his tongue darts out to gather Quentin’s come, the pressure of strong hands roaming over his thighs, the soft heat of Eliot’s breath. Alongside his own awareness, Quentin can feel the twist of excitement in Eliot’s gut, the heady, crushing need to spill inside Quentin, fill him and claim him. 

“So fucking hot, Q.” Eliot’s lips brush over the inside of his thigh. “You needed that, didn’t you?”

“I—yeah.” Quentin’s breath hitches as he watches Eliot. There’s a spot of wetness pooling through the fabric of Eliot’s trousers as he pushes up on his knees, and he squeezes his cock, biting his lip as his eyes rake over Quentin’s spent body. Because Eliot is still Eliot, he gives Quentin a show of undressing—loosening his tie, unbuttoning his vest, throwing it to the floor before shoving down his pants and revealing the length of his thick, gorgeous cock. The muscles in Eliot’s abdomen quiver as he strokes himself, foreskin pulling back to reveal the dark pink head, wet and flushed. 

“I’m gonna get you ready and make you come again. With my cock inside you this time,” Eliot says. He’s slow and languid as he takes the lube from his nightstand, coating his cock and sliding it over his fingers. “You want that? My hand and then my big cock?”

“Yeah. I want it.” Quentin’s breathing is ragged as he watches Eliot, stroking his cock and rearranging himself so he’s low between Quentin’s legs again. Quentin makes a sound like he’s been slapped when Eliot leans forward and pushes his finger inside, the heft of it so beautifully different from Quentin’s toys.

“Fuck, that’s nice and tight, hm. Gonna feel so good for me. That’s all you want, isn’t it? You need to be all filled up.” 

Quentin nods weakly, crying out again as Eliot’s fingers slide home, glancing over his prostate and staying there, worrying the spot. It’s so quick—how fast he gets hard again. He’s still covered in come, panting as Eliot slowly works a third finger inside, groaning as Quentin clenches against him. Moments blend into each other as Eliot stretches him open, working his prostate until he’s squirming, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “I’m— _please_ —please I need—”

He can feel the pulse of their magic together, the enchantment drawing them closer—stronger now that the last vestiges of autumn light are gone, the moon taking its place in the sky. Quentin is begging, but he can’t make out the exact words he’s saying—all he knows is the stretch of Eliot’s fingers inside, the grip of broad hand against his thigh, the bald hunger in Eliot’s eyes. This is isn’t how he would have wanted it for them—Quentin is stupidly romantic, he knows, and he’s well aware Eliot’s not the same, that sex is _easy_ for him. But Quentin would have wanted to take Eliot to dinner instead of lunch, get him expensive wine or a fancy cocktail—

Quentin’s life has never followed any of the parameters he’s set for himself. So obviously, this is—what it is. Frenzied and insane and—blindingly fucking _hot_ , Eliot working, diligent, until he finally pulls back and slicks more lube over the length of his cock. 

A crackling burn starts in his chest, just above the thrum of the bond, and he sobs, fingers tangling in the sheets, a mix of pleasure and pain swirling together inside. “Please—”

Trembling, Eliot surges forward, crushing their lips together. “Yeah? You want this?” The blunt head of Eliot’s dick is pressed against his hole. “Think you can take it?”

“Stop— _teasing_ —” A crackle like lightning zips beneath his skin, the magic ripping through him. “Please, please—come on—Eliot—”

Eliot lets out a broken sound, gripping Quentin’s hip hard, muscles trembling as he pushes, excruciatingly slow, until the head of his cock slips inside. “You okay? I don’t want to—don’t wanna hurt you.” He kisses over Quentin’s jaw as he holds himself just there, Quentin’s body clenching around him. 

“You’re good—it’s _so_ good,” Quentin says, putting one hand to Eliot’s face and tangling his fingers through his dark curls. He hooks one leg over Eliot’s hip, pulling him in, gasping as Eliot sinks deeper. 

“Ah, oh fuck, Q—” Eliot’s voice sounds pained, his body taut, breath a helpless shudder. 

Quentin lifts his other leg, holding it gently against Eliot’s side. His thigh quivers, a burn rising in his hips, the pressure of Eliot’s cock stretching him. 

Eliot’s curls are damp with sweat, his hands resting on either side of Quentin’s torso as he pushes in the barest bit more. A prickle runs along the back of Quentin’s neck, his own cock aching as Eliot’s hips stutter forward. The shape of Eliot’s pleasure like wildfire winds through him, and he can sense Eliot holding back, can feel it in the way Eliot shivers, in the body-shaking thrum of Eliot’s magic as it twines together with his. 

“Y-you okay?” Eliot doesn’t give him a chance to answer, opting instead to press a kiss to his lips, a desperate moan rising from his throat. 

“Yeah—” Quentin breathes the word against Eliot’s cheek. Eliot hitches one of Quentin’s legs further back and _pushes_ —Quentin gasps, swallowing a shocked sound as he tips his head back—it’s so much— “—more,” he chokes out and Eliot trembles, pulling back and plunging in— 

“Tight, it’s tight,” Eliot says, shaking—Quentin’s cock jerks against the fuzz of Eliot’s belly, friction and slickness winding the coil of his own need. It _is_ tight—he can feel that, too—the way his body clenches and Eliot lets out a soft, shocked noise and presses in further. Quentin can almost sense the snug-hot slide of his own body—Eliot’s pleasure reverberating in his veins.

Eliot’s broad hand squeezes his hip, blunt nails digging in, crescent shaped points of pain, Eliot’s wet-hot breath next to his ear. The deep stretch is almost almost too much—he’d known theoretically that it would feel like this, blinding pleasure and prickling ache, but it’s so much _more_ than he’d imagined. His cheeks throb, sunburnt-red, his senses narrowed down to the prickle in the tips of his fingers and toes, in the roots of his hair, in the muscles twitching in the small of his back. It’s impossible now to differentiate his own paths of sensation from Eliot’s, melded as they are, rapture and hunger both multiplied as Eliot snaps his hips forward and finally—finally sinks all the way in, skin to skin, no space left between them, cock filling Quentin to the hilt. 

Eliot lets out a stunned sound, hips stuttering against Quentin, pulses of movement that send thrilling echoes through his hips, down the length of his cock. Eliot’s lips cover his, hungry and searching, as he shudders against Quentin’s ass, barely moving, holding himself inside. 

Quentin’s own cock is heavy, so hard it hurts when another bead of precome slides from his tip.

Eliot rolls his hips, shuddering and groaning, muscles tensing and releasing as he clutches at Quentin and sinks in—not all the way but almost—Quentin gasps—he’s just so much to take—

“I want you to—I wanna, ah.” Quentin’s words are gone; Eliot is all the way inside of him, and all of his words have vanished. They may be gone for good. It’s highly possible, he thinks, delirious, that he’ll never speak again. “I—you—”

“Hhhnn—fuck, you feel _so_ good—” Eliot cants his hips back and thrusts inside hard, Quentin’s body jolting, moving like a rag doll, boneless. He feels high with all of Eliot—the vague scent of Eliot’s bergamot and citrus cologne, the sweat-slick press of Eliot’s forehead against his shoulder, the wet rasp of his breath, the curl of his fingers in Quentin’s hair as he tugs sharply, rolling his hips once, twice, sliding into Quentin’s body and—

“Oh—oh _fuck_ —oh my God, fuck—” Eliot shouts and bites down on Quentin’s shoulder, his hips catching and bucking forward hard as he groans, his cock crammed deep, pulsing and filling him. Quentin can feel the thrum of Eliot’s release in his own dick, jerking and dribbling as Eliot comes, and, desperate, Quentin reaches between them and wraps his hand around his cock, his body twitching when he strokes himself, hand slick with his own come. Panting, Eliot locks eyes with Quentin’s as he jerks himself off with Eliot still buried inside. 

He’s on the edge, making soft, pained sounds as Eliot’s hips jerk, still hard cock moving inside him. Quentin’s all frayed nerves and waves of jangled pleasure, one leg cocked over Eliot’s hip, holding him in place. Eliot’s hazel-gold eyes are on his, green flecks at the center—Quentin tips his head back and—his body seizes, cock jerking in his hand and spilling over his fist as he clenches against Eliot’s cock.

Eliot’s lips are wet against his a moment before it’s over and—he feels empty when Eliot pulls out and moves away. Quentin clutches at his arms, panic churning in his gut, the pain of the curse picking up and pinging through him, threatening to reach a boiling point before Eliot wraps his arm back around Quentin. When Eliot touches him again, relief settles inside him, ripples of warmth and contentment buzzing and cloud-light in his veins. 

Quentin buries his face against Eliot’s shoulder, just barely registering that Eliot squeezes his arm, the other hand flicking in the air, calling over the pack of cigarettes that lives in his nightstand. Quentin watches them fly into Eliot’s hand. He buries his face against Eliot’s neck, the taste of clean sweat on his lips. He closes his eyes against the ever-stinging fear that has lived with him since the first night of the waxing moon. The fear that he will have this, and he will lose it. That, no matter what, this thing with Eliot will see an end. Quentin’s lucky enough that Eliot ever wanted to be his friend, let alone—whatever they are. Even after the date, such as it was, he doesn’t know—

“You okay, Q?”

“Oh. Yeah. I’m good. I mean—great. I’m great.” Sated for now, the enchantment fills him with the reward of a low, hot buzzy thrum, beating on in a bass-like rhythm through the pit of his stomach, the center of his chest, down the lengths of his limbs. A swell of anxiety ticks up alongside it because he’s sure he’s not doing something—not saying something quite _right_. 

Eliot nods, his face in shadow—a bit _somber_ , Quentin thinks. Oh, _fuck_. 

“Q, I’m—”

“Uh—” He pulls back so that his head is resting against Eliot’s arm. “What did I—”

“I’m just—”

“What did—”

“Q, I’m sorry,” Eliot blurts. His cigarette dangles precariously from his fingers, but, because it’s Eliot, it doesn’t fall; it just rests there, collecting ash, flickering in the low light. 

“Um. What’s—what’s happening?”

“It won’t happen again.”

“What exactly won’t happen again? Are we not having sex again? Because I’ve had this conversation before and—I didn’t expect it to happen. With you? I thought—I thought we were—” Quentin sighs. A sickly runnel of anxiety filters through his chest, twisting and trailing down to his gut, where it pools, heavy and thick. “I mean, the curse, like, requires it—so.” So. He doesn’t have any follow up to that.

Eliot takes a drag of his cigarette and blows out a set of smoke rings, one within the other within the next, in a way that Quentin finds irresistibly sexy. It might have made it into his fantasies one or two times. Not that he’s had much time for fantasies what with all the nightly fucking—

“We’re fine, Quentin. But that was a poor performance. Certainly not up to my usual standards and—” Eliot takes another drag of the cigarette before disappearing it with a flick of his fingers. He looks at Quentin with that same somber look. “—for that I apologize. Like I said, it won’t be happening again.”

“Oh.” A few puzzle pieces rearrange and snap into place in his mind. “Oh—you think—that—wasn’t _good_?”

“No. I came in twenty seconds. I’m sure the fucking moon will have me up for another round of humiliation in the next hour or so.” Eliot’s voice drips with disdain, not a rare tone for Eliot to take—but this time, it’s directed entirely at himself. “Not that you have anywhere else to be, anywhere else you can be—lucky you.”

Eliot shrugs and fiddles with the pack of cigarettes, his eyes cast toward the ceiling. The room is cast in the opalescent light of the moon, strange, long shadows hitting the walls. 

“El, hey.”

“Cigarette?”

“No. Not right now. Maybe in a minute.”

Eliot’s eyes flick down to his, darting away after a moment. “Just thought I’d be honest about that since we’re stuck with each other.”

Quentin sighs, pushing out a harsh little laugh at the end. “That’s—like. Just how—I mean, like probably not for you. But that’s just how sex is? Like for most people. For, like. The mere mortals among us.”

Eliot lets out a harsh little laugh. “But still, that was—”

“Eliot, I don’t think I even—had good sex before you. Like. Most of the sex I’ve had has been—horribly embarrassing. Like I couldn’t show my face again on the east side of the freshman dorm type of embarrassing. So this is like—an upgrade? Like a big one. Like it’s always incredible with you.”

“Mm,” Eliot replies. Because he’s Eliot, and Eliot is absolutely fucking impossible. 

“Every time with you has been—the best sex I’ve ever had.” Quentin’s rambling now, so—whatever comes out, comes out. Fuck it. “I mean I know that’s an annoying thing that, like, you say when you wanna sound glib or whatever with someone you like but—it’s true? Like—it’s just true. And I do really like you—”

Quentin’s not as good at it or as speedy, but he tuts out a cleaning spell while he pauses to take a breath. The magic flows through his fingers, natural and easy now that he’s with Eliot, away from the fluorescent gleam of the healing lab and Professor Park’s cold stare. He feels Eliot’s eyes watching him in the near-dark of the room, following his movements as the magic catches and leaves them both warm and dry.

Eliot doesn’t say anything, which is entirely annoying. But predictable. So Quentin is going to do what Quentin does, which is—

“Listen, I do, like, really, really like you. Independent of the fucking enchantment—and so it’s—just good to get to be with you. And we already knew that tonight would be weird as fuck. And it was—but it was also _great_. I came _twice_. You just—” He traces two fingers over Eliot’s jaw, down the long line of his neck. “—you always make me feel good. Better than anyone’s ever made me feel.”

Eliot makes a disagreeable sound, but he doesn’t pull away. He pushes his face into Quentin’s hand. The touch of his skin is smooth and warm—he must have shaved just before Quentin returned—and even this small thing, this tiny bit of evidence that means Eliot was thinking of him, comes to life inside him like a match coming to life. When he closes his eyes, it’s like—sparklers. When he was little, before everything in his brain went south, his dad would buy packs of sparklers in the summertime. They’d light them in the driveway, and Quentin would wave them in broad arcs, watching the trails they left behind in the humid summer twilight. That’s what Eliot feels like to him, what being with Eliot feels like.

“I don’t care about a lot of things,” Eliot says, his face tilted up to watch the shifting shadows on the ceiling. Quentin can tell he’s trying for a breezy tone, but something in his voice falls just short of it. 

“You’ve said.” Quentin reaches for Eliot’s hand, and Eliot lets him take it, the cigarette pack abandoned on top of the coverlet.

“And I’m not prone to sleeping with anyone more than twice. That’s typically the limit.”

“Ah, yeah—I know I’ve put a damper on, you know. All of that.” 

Eliot doesn’t disabuse him of the notion, but he squeezes Quentin’s hand in response.

It’s clear that Eliot’s somewhere else, still staring beyond the room. He’s sprawled out with one leg to the side, more comfortable naked than Quentin’s ever been. Why wouldn’t he be? He’s painfully beautiful, almost unbearable to look at. Quentin doesn’t know how to communicate how lucky he feels, not without sounding insane, terrifying. _Too much, too fast_ —the story of Quentin Coldwater. 

“There was this girl my junior year—”

Eliot glances at him, their fingers still locked together. Quentin brushes his thumb over the expanse of skin between thumb and forefinger. There’s a jagged little scar there that runs counter to the grain of his skin. It’s raised, just a bit, barely visible. Quentin thinks there aren’t many people who’ve probably noticed it since holding hands isn’t something Eliot really does. Never with any of the boys Quentin’s seen him with.

“—she was really smart and cute, and she was friends with Julia. And she liked me for whatever reason. And since it was like—pretty clear that Julia was never going to want me—and neither was James, for that matter—”

Eliot pushes a bit of air through his nose at that. 

“—so I asked her out, and I held myself together the few times we fooled around. And then we—we were going to have sex—”

“Your first time?” Even though Eliot’s face is mostly shrouded in darkness, Quentin can tell he’s biting down on a smile. 

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Eliot.” Quentin huffs. “Anyway, it was a total fucking disaster.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. We put a fucking sock on the door and—we were making out. I, like, got stuck in my shirt, trying to take it off and—then—do you want to hear this?”

“Oh, yes. You’re the one who brought it up. It’s certainly your responsibility to let me know how it ends.” Eliot lifts the cigarette pack with a wave of his free hand, twirling it in the moonlight before them. 

“God. So, uh. I touched her boob, and I nearly came, even though I’d like. Done that before with her? So, like, after that—I was way more focused on keeping it together than I was on getting her off. So she was fucking _bored_. But I didn’t even think about that until two days later, like. It was—awful. And when I went to get the condom on, I just—I came halfway through putting it on—and I freaked out—I threw it across the room, and I ended up shoving my elbow in her jaw. So. Her roommate slapped me two days later when the bruise was, like, really, really purple. I guess she thought I did it on purpose. Which. I didn’t. I came and—yeah. Panicked.” Quentin clears his throat. “That’s a thing that you know now.”

A stifled laugh bubbles up from Eliot’s throat, and the cigarettes descend, hitting the floor next to the bed. Quenin tries to pull his hand back, but Eliot doesn’t let go, reeling Quentin in closer. “That’s very cute.”

“It was absolutely, like, the least cute thing that’s ever happened to me. I really, really don’t think—that’s the right word.”

“It is.” Eliot presses a kiss to his forehead, which makes Quentin think it was very possibly worth it to share his most embarrassing sex memory. You know, if that’s the response. “It is _so_ cute.”

“No, it’s like. God. Like not all the sex I’ve had has been quite that bad, but some of it was close. This guy I hooked up with fell asleep midway through giving me a hand job, and I just finished in a tissue, threw it away in the trash can under his desk, and went home. It’s a real storied history, Eliot. Not in a good way.”

“So coming inside you in less than a minute is what does it for you?”

Heat creeps back over Quentin’s cheeks. If he tells Eliot it was the single hottest thing that’s ever happened to him, he’s certain he’ll lose whatever credibility he has. “Y-yeah,” he stammers, still stuck on Eliot uttering the words ‘coming inside you’ after doing exactly that. God, he can still _feel it_ , the stretch and burn, the glowy relief still sitting in his veins. “I mean. Did it look like I wasn’t having a good time? Like. Also, honestly, I think we can work up to like. Larger scale fucking. For right now, I value being able to walk. So that was—you know. Enough for the time being.”

“Oh, you do? Bold of you to assume,” Eliot says, hitching Quentin closer, “that I’m just going to let you walk out of here.”

“Oh?”

Eliot kisses him, an end-of-the-movie type of kiss—seeking and searching, teeth scraping over his bottom lip, languid and hungry and thorough, his hand tucked against the nape of Quentin’s neck, thumb brushing along the underside of his jaw. Warmth expands behind his chest as Eliot kisses him; it’s like the fibers of the bond all turn to lit-up gold, transformed from burning want to contentment. Maybe it’s only the enchantment that makes him feel like this—safe and small, cared for in a way he doesn’t think anyone’s ever made him feel, desirable in a way he’s never been to anyone else. It’s terrifying to think that it’s only the curse, that his feelings for Eliot are the result of magical intervention—and, worse, that it’s the same for Eliot. 

“Q, stop thinking.”

Quentin laughs a little, pressing his nose against the hollow of Eliot’s neck. “You were just—down on yourself—”

“I did manage to go down on myself, but only once,” Eliot says. “Didn’t feel great the next day. Hell of a neck sprain.”

“Oh, my God.” 

“What? Relevant topic.”

“It’s absolutely not. The visual isn’t displeasing but—” Quentin pauses. Eliot smells good here, but there’s not a place where he doesn’t, really. But just above his chest is musky and dark and very essentially himself, no additives. He wonders. “—have you ever doubled yourself? I mean. I read that the spell is complicated—”

Eliot laughs. “No, but I’ve seen it done. At Encanto.”

“The sex festival thing? Alice said her parents met there.”

“Oh? That’s odd.” Eliot’s fingers pet through his hair and down over the nape of his neck. “Actually, I take that back. That explains a lot.” 

“Yeah. Her teen rebellion was anti-rebellion.” 

“Mmm. Well. On the subject of doubling—I think it takes quite a bit of prep. I’ve considered it. Never got around to it. There are so many other forms of sex magic. I haven’t even tapped into a tenth of what I saw last year at Encanto.” 

“Tell me.”

“Perverse bedtime story?”

Quentin nods, nosing against Eliot’s chest. He yawns and settles there, listening to the rumble of Eliot’s voice as he explains his theories on the bond and how it works similar to a voluntary telepathic connection. Quentin falls asleep like that, surrounded by the cadence of Eliot’s voice and the beating of his heart.

~~***~~

It’s close to morning when Quentin wakes. It’s strange that he’s been sleeping and waking with Eliot for so long now. Weeks. He’s never done that with another person; the “relationships” he’d had in college were never much more than a collection of awkward one-night-stands. He’s not sure he would have gotten the confidence to actually ask Eliot out if it weren’t for their foray into the city and Marina’s meddling. He hopes it ends. And he hopes it doesn’t end. 

He doesn’t want to not feel this, the soft mat of Eliot’s chest hair against his cheek, the grasp of his hand at the divot of his waist. The room is no longer bathed in moonlight, but filled with the orangey glow of pre-dawn. Disappointment settles in his chest—he supposes it makes sense that they’d fucked, and the curse was for once completely satisfied, so they didn’t need to wake and feed it with, like, other kinds of sex. Which feels weirdly reductive and, like, heteronormative for a piece of magic. Probably the fault of the original caster—

And that probably means that Quentin will have to wait. And he’ll probably need to, like, go back to his room and shower and—let Eliot do whatever he does on Saturdays. Last weekend, Eliot had made him an omelet, and maybe Quentin could talk him into that. He lets his fingertips roam down the crest of Eliot’s collarbone and over the swoop of his shoulder. His arm twitches, fingers pressing into Quentin’s skin. A stretch of Eliot’s long body follows, tugging away from Quentin. He expects Eliot to get up, push him away or—whatever. Not that he does that most mornings, but they both usually have shit to do—

Instead, Quentin is met with kisses over his shoulder and up the length of his neck. Quentin gasps when Eliot sucks his earlobe between his teeth, flicking his tongue over it and sending a tender jolt down to Quentin’s cock. They haven’t fooled around in the daytime—a few lingering kisses in the mornings but nothing beyond that. 

“I was wondering if I could have a do-over.” Eliot’s voice is soft and low in his ear. 

“Yeah?” Quentin’s pulse picks up and he scoots closer so he’s face to face with Eliot. “We don’t need to. I—I’m fine.”

“If you don’t want to—”

“No, that’s not what I meant. Like, it’s—” He reaches for words that he finds just aren’t there. 

“I want to.” Eliot kisses him, soft and tender, nipping at his lower lip. “I really want to.” He takes Quentin’s hand in his and moves it down to wrap around the base of his cock. “That’s for you.” 

Quentin’s breath catches in his chest. “Won’t we just—tonight—”

“We’re young. And we have fuel from a very weird enchantment. Let me get you all nice and wet.” Eliot’s cock is hot and heavy in his hand, and Quentin’s body is waking up, responding and wanting. “I don’t think I’ll last long because you feel so fucking good. But I’ll make you—” Eliot wraps his fingers around Quentin’s cock and runs his thumb beneath the head. 

“Fuck.” 

“—really feel it this time. We can go back to sleep. And I’ll make you brunch when we wake up again.” Eliot smooths his hand over Quentin’s cock, rubbing his palm over the head.

“You’ve thought about this.”

“I did. Let me show you.” He strokes Quentin again, sending a thrill up the column of his spine.

“God. Holy shit. Yeah, I—I wanna—”

“Get on your hands and knees for me.”

Quentin nods, moving until he’s where Eliot wants him, knees spread apart as Eliot grabs a handful of his ass and thumbs over his rim, sending a wave of shivery warmth through his hips. He’s hard now, cock heavy between his legs, but there’s none of the crazy urgency that rises with the bond, no hint of the pain that grows between them prior to their coupling at night.

“I’m going to do a spell. It might feel a little strange, but—”

Quentin looks back over his shoulder. “I’ve used the, uh, you know—I’ve used it before.”

Eliot’s eyebrows raise at that, and there’s a faint flush on his cheeks. “Oh? With your little toy collection?”

“Um. Yep. That’d be—me.” God, what the fuck—Quentin can’t even string together three words in a way that makes sense. Not that he can be blamed with Eliot, fully hard behind him, breathing heavy and squeezing his ass and looking at him like he’s—a brunch omelet.

“I need to have you show me sometime. During the new moon, maybe. So I can just watch. I think you’d like that.”

“You don’t know everything,” Quentin says, but his voice comes out with a tremble.

“I can make an educated guess.” He punctuates that with another squeeze before moving his hand to the small of Quentin’s back. He doesn’t recognize the sigil that Eliot draws—maybe something Sino-Tibetan—he’ll have to ask because it’s different from the symbols Quentin uses, which of course are optimized for the user to perform on themself—

Quentin’s whole body quakes when the spell takes hold, warmth spreading through his abdomen, muscles jumping as his body opens. It’s different than using it on himself, still oddly clinical but erotic in its own way—because this time, it’s for Eliot. 

Eliot is already spreading him open and pressing the head of his cock against Quentin’s entrance, pushing against his rim until he slips just inside.

“Is—are you—you okay?” Eliot holds himself there, the swollen head of his cock just inside the tight ring of muscle, fingers flexing against Quentin’s waist. 

“I—I’m—yeah.” Quentin rolls his neck, looking back at Eliot again, a tingle running from the top of his cheekbones, down his neck and the column of his spine, meeting Eliot’s hands where he holds Quentin, thumbs pressed against the divots in his hips. “Feels so good. You can—more—”

Eliot lets out a shuddering sigh, easing his cock inside, bit by bit. The muscles in Quentin’s stomach jump as Eliot plunges inside, and his breath catches in his chest. The fullness, the burn of taking Eliot’s thick cock—he thought he felt it last night, felt all there was to feel, but that wasn’t true, was it? It’s so much more this morning, maybe because the bond is quiet now—a low rumble instead of a roar—and Quentin is more at home in his skin, and he can just feel Eliot, slower and sweeter, present and real, pushing into him with a slow, aching intensity. His body takes Eliot, stretching until it doesn’t anymore, until Eliot is buried inside, his thighs pressed to Quentin’s, their hips flush together.

“Fuck, Q. Baby—I—” The words fall out in a whisper, the unfinished thought lost in a moan as Eliot pulls back and sinks in, thighs trembling. Eliot goes on like that, barely moving his hips, rolling his hips in little circles and punctuating each thrust with soft, punched-out moans. 

The fullness is the same as it was before—Eliot’s cock nudging against his prostate on every thrust—but it’s _different_ , too. In the pre-dawn glow, it feels truer, more real, a blaze that comes to life with methodical surety instead of the glittering phantasm that bursts between them in the night. Eliot’s touch is firm and sure as he holds Quentin, drawing him back on a deep thrust, shuddering inside, and doing it all over again. His cock aches, jerking each time Eliot bottoms out—that feels almost new, too—his pleasure, so wild and ephemeral last night, seems a tangible thing now, expanding through his cells, sitting between his teeth and resting there as Eliot picks up speed and lets out a shattered sound of pleasure.

Eliot sets his pace, just on the border of rough, Quentin’s senses consumed with the hot-dirty sound of skin slapping against and the jolting sensation of being filled in rhythmic bursts. The words Quentin says are mostly lost, fractured demands for _more_ and _harder_ that fall against the sweat-soaked pillow. 

“You love it, don’t you?” Eliot leans forward, still fucking into him rhythmically, winding his fingers in Quentin’s hair and pulling, tilting Quentin’s head back so Eliot can look into his eyes.

“Yeah, I—I do—” 

Eliot swallows his words with a messy half-kiss, teeth clacking against Quentin’s, grunting as he speeds up. “So pretty, you’re so pretty, baby,” Eliot murmurs, tugging at his hair and scraping his teeth over Quentin’s jaw. “Wanna feel you come on my cock while I’m fucking you.” 

That drags a primitive, shaking moan from Quentin; he could keep going like this forever, given over to the sensation of Eliot driving deep into him.

“El—” The word comes out with a little sob.

“Baby, baby,” he murmurs, draping himself over Quentin’s back and presses his face to the nape of Quentin’s neck, kissing it, tongue darting out over the ridge of his shoulders, down along the knobs of his spine as he fucks into him in short, quick thrusts. Hazily, Quentin thinks that he never knew before what it was like to be touched, to be held, and Eliot just keeps showing him, on and on, what it’s like to be wanted.

“Close,” Quentin says, his voice a rasp. “Wanna feel it.”

“Here—” The voice is a humid whisper in his ear as Eliot pulls him up, taking Quentin’s hand in his and lacing their fingers, pressed together across Quentin’s chest. The angle is awkward, allowing for only shallow thrusts, but like this, Eliot’s cock hits the bundle of nerves inside each time, creating a thrilling hunger, coiling up inside. “Lemme—” Eliot takes Quentin’s cock in hand, gripping him and pressing his thumb just beneath the head. “I got you, come on.” 

Eliot’s so skilled at this, drawing lube from the air with a one-handed tut and working it over Quentin’s cock as he keeps fucking into him, kissing Quentin, open and messy. Heated shudders roll through Quentin’s body, that low, dark hunger rising up through him, fingertips tingling and toes curling. Wanting more—more of the bundled up feeling of _safe_ and _held_ and _home_ , Quentin draws Eliot’s free hand to his neck, holding it there. Something clicks inside when Eliot grasps him, and his eyes close, body going limp and relaxed as Eliot lets out a cracked groan against his ear.

“Like that, hm?” Quentin just gasps, cheeks red and hot, tension searing through him, twisting tight inside as Eliot works his cock over, wet and filthy, his other palm still pressed tight to Quentin’s neck. “I know exactly what you like, don’t I?”

“I—you—I’m—” Quentin wants to snark again that Eliot doesn’t know everything, but his words are in short supply, and he’s full of Eliot’s cock, contained in his hands and—if Eliot thinks that’s what he wants, Quentin will have to admit that he’s right. 

Eliot’s hand tightens on Quentin’s throat, sending a rush to his head, cheeks thrumming and hot, temples pulsing, even his tongue heavy and tingling. 

“Come on, Q, I know you need to—”

Quentin shouts, orgasm raging through him like a riptide, shaking him to his center, beneath the heart of his magic. He ruts forward into Eliot’s hand, keening and sobbing as he comes in shaky spurts over Eliot’s bed, his toes curling up, fingers twitching. Eliot cries out as Quentin’s body pulses against him, fucking him through it, speeding up as he chases his own release. 

“So fucking good, holy _fuck_.” Eliot slams into him, his thrusts gone staccato and uncontrolled, desperate. He keeps his grip on Quentin, body trembling and pushing Quentin forward, letting out a long, quivering moan. Eliot slows himself, hips stuttering against Quentin’s ass as he comes inside, filling him. 

They fall to the bed together, hands still held tight. It’s romantic in a gross way, which is what Quentin’s always wanted out of life. Out of a partner, anyway. His brain, traitorous, meanders back to the idea that this is all temporary, but he shoves away the thought, scooting in close to Eliot and nosing against the sweaty skin of his neck. 

“You’re beautiful,” Eliot says.

“Yeah?” Quentin doesn’t know how to respond to that because he’s not only not experienced with most sex things, he’s also, like, not sure he’s heard that before. He lets the words sink into him and sit beneath his skin, his head pressed to Eliot’s chest, his heartbeat ticking on and on. 

“Mm hmm. I had that thought the first time I saw you. ‘He’s beautiful. And clueless. I should probably fuck him.’”

“Wow. That’s, like, a whole journey. First day.”

“Then we were friends,” Eliot adds.

“We were friends? Did I miss that—”

“Hush. I want you, and I like you.” Eliot lets his fingers meander between Quentin’s shoulder blades. “And I wish I could take you out under normal circumstances. Alas. None of our circumstances are normal.”

“You’d ask me out?” Quentin’s too spent for the anxiety to spin up inside of him, but it prickles a little in the pit of his gut. 

“Well, I.” Eliot pauses, his fingers still making circles on Quentin’s back. “I’m not good at this kind of thing. Even when I really like someone. And I haven’t, not in a long time. But if I were more put together, I would have. I think.”

Quentin blows a little huff of air through his nose. “You’re like the most put together person I know. What makes you think you’re—I dunno—so different from everyone else?”

Eliot makes a considering sound. “Hm. Maybe I’m not. But the way I got to magic—” He stops, sighing, repeating the same cigarette retrieval from the night before. He snaps with one hand to light it and takes a long drag. “—I killed someone with my magic when I was fourteen. Not everyone can say that, I don’t think.” 

“An accident?” Quentin’s stomach flips over. This doesn’t fit with his idea of Eliot, but he realizes he has _no_ concept of Eliot at fourteen. Wherever he grew up, it likely wasn’t easy to be who he is. 

“Yeah. Well—I don’t know. I hated him. He was a bully.” Eliot takes a long drag of the cigarette. “His name was Logan Kinnear. He’d shoved my head into my locker so many times—by the eighth grade, I just expected it. Get off the bus. Put away my lunch, get slammed into my locker—”

Quentin squeezes his hand.

“—I saw him crossing the street. There was a bus, and I barely thought the thought. My nose bled, and the bus lurched forward—Logan was gone, and I ruined my favorite button-down. That’s how I discovered I was telekinetic.” Eliot blows out a puff of smoke. “I learned how fucked up and dangerous magic is—and I learned how fucked up and dangerous I am.”

“You were trying to protect yourself.” Quentin tries to keep his voice low and soothing. He still holds Eliot’s hand, stroking his thumb over one knuckle as Eliot talks. He can’t imagine Eliot hurting anyone on purpose—or, well, without a good reason.

“I didn’t need protection that afternoon. Logan was walking home from school. He was fifteen—a kid.”

“So were you,” Quentin says softly. “You were a kid, too.”

“Mm, I suppose,” Eliot says, affecting an uncaring tone. He taps off a bit of ash, and it disappears in the air before them. “Either way, that’s my sordid past. I came to New York pretty soon after that. Stayed in hedge safe houses. Led a rather fucked up, unglamorous life until I managed to get into college.”

His heart drops when he thinks of Eliot, alone, so young. “What does that have to do with anything—”

“I’ve not been much good to anyone besides myself, Q.”

“That’s not true—”

“And you’re stuck with me,” Eliot says. He sounds—hesitant, maybe, or just sad. His voice is small and thin and thoroughly unlike the Eliot he’s come to know. 

“And you’re stuck with me,” Quentin says. “In case you haven’t noticed, I have plenty of flaws. There’s not a person who doesn’t. There’s definitely not a _magician_ who doesn’t. And I’m not—I’m not asking for something you can’t give. Or whatever. Like, not everything has to be traditional. Right? We didn’t do things in order, so we can just... keep playing it by ear.”

Eliot tilts his head to the side, making a humming sound. Quentin doesn’t know if he’s agreeing or just acknowledging that he’s heard Quentin. Either way, he’ll just have to take that as a positive sign and not overthink it—because Quentin is _great_ at that. Quentin watches him smoke for a while, his lips lovely and full and pink.

“I suppose,” Eliot says after a while.

“We don’t need, like, a label,” Quentin blurts out, his head spinning, heartbeat skittering beneath his skin. “I mean. Unless you would want that.”

To his surprise, Eliot gives him a little smile. “I wouldn’t mind it. You are very pretty and a total disaster. Just my type.”

“Hey—” Quentin knits his brows and thinks of protesting, but he’s not exactly sure how to counter that. It’s not untrue. At least the disaster part. But Eliot has stubbed out his cigarette and flicked it away to God-knows-where, and he pulls Quentin in for a kiss. With the relative success of their conversation and the thoroughness of Eliot’s kiss and the press of his hand against Quentin’s waist, his brain goes blissfully blank. When Eliot pulls away, Quentin’s words are gone, and all that’s left is Eliot’s thrall.

“We should sleep for a little bit.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says. Eliot’s eyes are on his, and his focus is absolutely shot.

“And then I’ll make pancakes.”

If Quentin weren’t lying down already, he’s sure he’d swoon into Eliot’s arms like a recency heroine. “That would be—that’d be really nice.”

For right now, he can let himself actually feel the contentment that comes on a morning like this, free of responsibilities and distractions, and for now, safe with one another. They’ve entered a kind of stasis, and they’re going to give this thing between them an actual chance. 

Things are looking up. He goes to sleep, dreaming of pancakes and wakes, later, to Eliot’s smile. 

“Brunch, baby,” Eliot murmurs, kissing him. 

“Yeah,” Quentin says, “That would be perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you wanna hear me scream about Magicians et al on Tumblr, I'm at [@hoko-onchi-writes](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hoko-onchi-writes). On Twitter I'm [@asavvymama](https://twitter.com/asavvymama), but I'm not there as much.


End file.
